


Mediation

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: All Nine Circles Of Hell, BDSM, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mind Control, Post Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Rough Sex, Sexual Abuse, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:43:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 100,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Why <em>are</em> you here, Freak?'<br/>'To check up on him,' Jack says, as offhandedly as he can manage. It's no secret.</p><p>(The TARDIS isn't big enough for the three of them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, it's been done to death, but I couldn't resist my own take on this classic set-up. This story picks up a few months after the events on the Valiant, where in this AU, the Master didn't die and the Doctor does indeed "keep" him. Of course, the fun really starts when Jack decides to keep an eye on things. This will get darker in later chapters, and you have been duly warned, this is still a WIP. Have fun!

When Jack finally calls the Doctor, it's because he has no other options left. His team have reached their breaking point, none of them have slept more than a couple of hours each; the British Government have followed their global counterparts in declaring martial law, society is in freefall, and after Owen storms out he knows he's reached the absolute limit of what they can do.

Contacting him is an ordeal of its own variety, but when the reply arrives Jack waits another two days yet, getting Tosh to work with the UNIT scientists to search for some technological solution to the impending invasion, taking advantage of his Time Agent training to draw up strategies for a handful of high-ranking commanders based on what they have gleaned from this alien race. The number-crunching is too unreliable, the Rift too unpredictable, the major powers too afraid of their own loss of control to accept much advice from Torchwood, of all places. It's only then that he replays the message and follows the instructions he's been given. The reply is hasty, dismissive, the worst of the Doctor. Even as civilisation threatens to crumble around him and his team, he knows it's always been this he doesn't have the heart to face.

When it's time, and the situation has deteriorated a few orders of magnitude further than his conscience would have usually allowed, he leaves Gwen in charge and instructions for the occasion of his extended absence. He tells Ianto alone where he's going before he lets UNIT escort (manhandle) him to the secure area he signals the Doctor from. In the wind and a gloomy drizzle of rain, damp and shivering, the TARDIS arrives only an hour later. That in itself should have tipped him off how bad things were, but when the doors open it's a surprise anyway.

The Doctor ducks out, glancing left and right before he slips through the doors and locks them securely. He looks so much older, so much tireder, than Jack has ever known him. There's a peculiar wide-eyed, hurt look under the hard lines of his face, like somewhere this is the Time Lord equivalent of a toddler finding their goldfish belly-up in the tank one morning.

His face seems to flinch through five different emotions before it settles on a friendly grin, and he hugs back with no less enthusiasm but to Jack it still feels brittle. He hesitates in a way that is entirely new, holds back in the beginning, but when the action starts and there's no more time for talking he throws himself into the task at hand with all the old vigor.

He's manic, even, more than Jack is comfortable with, and the necessary diplomacy is as always more pot luck and talking too fast to be understood than any great skill on the Doctor's behalf. His sigh of relief is breathed the greatest when Earth's airspace is finally clear and the environmental phenomena recede at last. The moment he and the Doctor share a hug, in triumph, is almost exactly how he remembers it. There's a grin, and a shared understanding that has come to Jack since taking up his own share of responsibility for Earth's safety.

But the Doctor is the Doctor, and the moment is crushed before it even blossoms as he almost runs back to the UNIT vehicles, nattering to the driver half-heartedly, who himself is far more concerned with phoning his family as the towers start to come back online. The drive is long enough that those silences the Doctor so dreads begin to reign inside the truck, the kind belonging to two people who have entire lifetimes to catch up on and yet find they have absolutely nothing to say. The kind that outline, vividly, how little there is left they are willing to give each other.

Jack can't ignore that much longer. It's been centuries, and then it had been a year, and then a little over six months, and it still hurts. He opens his mouth and only the expectation of the silence that follows finally drags the words out.

'How is he?'

The Doctor is remarkably calm as he insists, 'Better.'

'Doctor,' Jack warns. He won't play the game again, not with this.

'Don't you dare,' is the reply, too soft for Jack to know if it's a growl over the rumble of the road. There's a pause where the Doctor licks his lips, as if this is another advanced theorem of temporal physics that he knows nobody will understand, but tries to humour him anyway. 'There are good days and bad. He's--it's better than it was before.'

If "before" is meant to mean "enslavement of the human race and daily torture" then he doesn't want to be humoured.  'You can't believe that. You're not yourself.'

The Doctor glances at the soldier behind the wheel and his expression hardens. 'I can't afford to be.'

And then Jack reads between the thin lines of his lips, the hollow of his cheeks, and sees that he means 'I don’t want to be.' The words are already there, but he feels them lose their conviction as he says, 'You know you can't change him.'

'Yeah,' is all the Doctor says, apologetic, and then his eyes flick to something out the window.

The silence is, surprisingly, a comfort.

***

Jack invents some kind of business at the Hub he has to take care of to make the Doctor wait around for him, which is uncomfortable, as he starts getting edgy, manic, and then quiet and thoroughly avoidant. When he can stall no longer, he insists to accompany the Doctor back to the TARDIS, like walking to the gallows.

The Doctor makes a single protest, a stern, 'You know I can't let you do this, Jack,' but that aside there is little said between them. Jack's mind is made before they even sight the TARDIS on its rooftop. It is testament to why he's doing this, even as the TARDIS protests and the wood sticks in its jamb, that the Doctor all but stands aside to let Jack pass through the doors.

Jack takes a deep breath and lays his hand on the blue paint comfortingly, his eyes shut as he enters for the first time since the last time. He isn't sure what he expects to see, but it isn't the console and its battered seat just lying there, exactly the way he remembers down to the cultural debris that litters the grated floor.

There's an intake of breath behind him just as he starts to wonder, and a cold, mocking voice straight from his nightmares that chuckles in the shadows. 'Well, _well_. If it isn't Handsome Jack.'

Jack refuses to let himself betray any reaction and turns calmly to face the other Time Lord who he won't acknowledge as Master of anything, where he leans casually against the TARDIS doors. The Doctor slinks away to fiddle with something on the console, but this time Jack is determined to prove he can take care of himself.

'Did you miss me?' he grins, taking off his coat and throwing it over the strut where the Doctor's usually sits. He's awarded a curt nod and a slight raise of the eyebrows, which he supposes is a measure of being impressed, and hopefully also a truce.

The Master straightens his tie (he hasn't changed a bit from Jack's fragmented memories) and stalks behind the Doctor, digging fingers into his shoulders to better lean over him on tiptoes.

Jack watches, warily, but the other Time Lord is content to simply look amused and say, 'Cut that out, Doctor, we both know that dial doesn't even measure anything in this dimension.'

'That's the problem,' the Doctor mutters, and shrugs off the contact like he's done it a hundred times already.

'It's very rude of you,' the Master sniffs, 'Now we've got the gang back together. Why _are_ you here, Freak?'

'To check up on him,' Jack says, as offhandedly as he can manage. It's no secret.

The Master grins broadly at this, only a little of the usual mockery present. 'Ooh, really? It'll be just like old times! The Master, the Doctor, and his pet, the Freak.'

Jack can't help clench his fist at that, the Doctor looking up from his tinkering to shoot a glare. 'Don't listen to him, Jack.'

He doesn't have to for much longer. With an exaggerated wave, the Master makes his exit, leaving the two of them and the awkward, stifling silences that now follow them around.

With a sudden spike of fear, Jack wonders just what he's gotten himself into, just as suddenly as he realises he has to stay.

The Doctor cycles through his usual repertoire; he excuses the Master's behaviour, makes small talk, devolves into chatter and technobabble, fidgets and paces and rakes his hands through his hair until Jack offers him leave with the excuse of wanting to find his room again. Only then does the Doctor escape to the bowels of his ship, Jack wandering after aimlessly, double-checking every corner and corridor.

Jack's room is, in fact, elusive. The TARDIS is reluctant to show him to any rooms but the most basic; the console room, the wardrobe, a bathroom that ought to belong in the corner of a prison cell, a kitchen that presented itself as a pantry full of tinned lychees (which so happened to be the only fruit Jack genuinely hated). He ends up sleeping in the tiny room that functions as a toilet that night, because it's the only room the TARDIS allows him with a lock, even though he knows it has as much chance of keeping the Master out as a water balloon.

Contacting the TARDIS psychically is a lot more successful. Her interface is staggeringly huge, a consciousness so unfathomable he's scared he'll lose his mind in the enormity of it the first time he tries to talk to her. Whatever he manages to communicate to her, she relents, and when he sends a thought of his room he finds the door only a few hallways later. It's exactly like he remembers it, untouched from the day he left and woke up on Satellite Five. Hesitantly, he walks to his bed and slides his palm over the sheets, amazed to find them still warm. He recognises Rose's lipstick, still there, sitting uncapped on the dresser.

He catches himself pretending for the shortest of moments nothing had ever changed and his Doctor will demand to know what's taking so long and barge in, leather jacket and stupid ears, and realises he can't bear to stay here.

Approaching the TARDIS again, he sends a clear picture of how he'd like the room remodelled and can't fathom when, exactly, it changed, only that suddenly Jack becomes aware the room now looks exactly how he'd specified. Fondly, he smooths down the covers of Ianto's bed before climbing on top of them, pleasantly surprised with the TARDIS that the sheets somehow smell of him. Sending his thanks towards the buzz in the back of his head, Jack closes his eyes and rests a while in what is beginning to feel like his home again.

***

 


	2. II: Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the story takes a little shape, and Jack manages to confront the Doctor. Warning for some implied non-con and abuse.

He doesn't actually see either of them for almost a week. At least, Jack thinks it’s a week, the TARDIS's day-cycles are certainly not following any Earth pattern he can make out.

Predictably, it's the Master he bumps into first, and unpredictably Jack finds him with his shirtsleeves rolled around his elbows and hands deep into a sink of soapy water. He feels an almost palpable sense of relief, a kind of calm he disconcertingly recognises as that acceptance right before he's about to die and realises he's been so ready and afraid for this moment for months it's almost underwhelming, now.

The biggest thought on his mind is laughably that this kitchen he's been visiting for days now is actually communal, and he hasn't noticed.

'Hello, Freak,' the Master smiles, brightly, shaking the suds off his hands onto the chequered linoleum.

Jack raises his eyebrows, tossing a nearby teatowel which the Master catches with catlike reflexes. 'Morning. Or it could be evening, but I guess you're not going to tell me.'

There's a sparkle in this Time Lord's eyes that reminds Jack all too well of the Doctor, that childlike fascination. The old Doctor, Jack has to remind himself. He's not so naïve as to pretend he can't have lost something, here.

'Second noon. Or, in human terms, lunchtime.'

Wary, Jack keeps one eye on him as he opens the fridge, a yellowed vintage thing, and plucks a fruit he's yet to ask the Doctor the name of from the door. But he can't help from asking for much longer. 'What are you doing?'

The Master rolls his eyes theatrically, hefting a metal spatula rather like a baton. ' _Cleaning_ , Freak. I don't seem to remember you having any particular grasp of hygiene but please, try to keep up.'

Jack can feel his blood boiling and he opens his mouth for an ill-thought out retort, but he's cut off by the godawful sound of metal scraping on metal. He can't figure out whether the sensation of his eardrums being scoured off by the screech is more painful than watching the Master scrape the frictionless finish off the frypan, curl by curl, but it takes all his self restraint not to wrench it out of his hands.

With a kind of morbid fascination, Jack keeps watching as the Master sets the pan down, thoroughly ruined, and starts on the next one. He nibbles his fruit, some combination of anxiety and spectacle making him consume it at a glacial pace, until the pots and  pans are little more than scrap metal. He can't not stare while the Master upends the cutlery drawer, the contents of which a hodgepodge of culinary implements from countless cultures and times that could fill an entire museum, and begins to sort them meticulously. In what fashion, Jack hasn't got the faintest clue; they could just as easily be organised by name of designer as by atomic number of their primary constituent, but he's sure it's the one calculated  in frightening detail  to piss off the Doctor the most.

Task complete, the Master gives him a grin so unashamedly licentious it puts Jack to shame, and leaves.

Jack feels like laughing, but he hardly dares let out his breath.

***

Things are, for another respectable chunk of time, quiet. Jack hardly sees either Time Lord, and if it wasn't for the evidence of their continued habitation he'd wonder if they were even still here at all. The Doctor leaves a sticky trail of jam on the tabletop that the TARDIS doesn't always reset in time for him, the console sometimes is missing sections and spewing wiring and hydraulic lines (Jack can only guess) that are gone by the next time he visits. The Master leaves everything from mindless destruction to redecoration, and so far Jack's favourite example of rebellion has been the complex Gallifreyan symbols streaked in the steam on the bathroom mirror with a fingertip. He imagines it must be some kind of petty genealogical insult.

The Master's behaviour Jack can only rationalise as the kind of pranks schoolchildren would play on each other and wonders if perhaps that's exactly the point. He can read between the lines, there, but it hurts no more than it already does.

For a few days, almost, he _almost_ believes the Doctor. And then he sees him.

Jack knows Time Lords need little sleep but he's sure the Doctor hasn't had so much as a wink since he first came on board. There's a shadow of fading bruises just under the collar of his shirt that Jack can't distinguish from fingers or teeth and he walks stiffly, with injuries that can only be guessed at. Surprisingly, Jack is calm; this is a situation that at least he knows how to manage better than ordering spoons.

The Doctor edges into the console room, looking at Jack with a conspiratorial smile even while his eyes are blank, and pulls the display closer while he taps a few keys.

'Doctor,' Jack warns.

The Doctor doesn't shift his body, but instead turns his head to grin a little more widely at him. 'Jack! It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm sorry if the old girl's been giving you any trouble.' The last, he says with a fond pat to the console.

Jack can't help a sigh escaping, and takes a seat opposite him. 'Not much. Neither has your prisoner, if you'd believe that.'

The Doctor looks shocked as he glances back at him, even hurt. The pause is long enough he can almost see the air darkening. 'I'm not a jailer.'

'Mmm,' Jack refuses to answer. 'Then what's he doing here?'

He pauses, mouth half-open with his tongue in the middle of forming a word, like he's figuring out an equation. 'He needs me.'

Jack is almost disgusted with himself to feel a tiny, smouldering coil of rage at the imperiousness with which the Doctor says it. He tries to remember if even in the short time he spent with this regeneration, he was ever like this. He wonders if this is how the Master feels.

'Doctor,' Jack says again, 'You're a punching bag.'

When the Doctor's eyes meet his, Jack glimpses something so old and painful there he's struck (not for the first time) by that feeling he is dealing with something more ancient and alien than he'll ever have the right to try and understand. The words are dead in his throat and always too late.

'I can take care of myself.'

He knows better than to pry there. This time, Jack leaves, before he says _no, you can't_.

***

The TARDIS is somehow too big for Jack to bump into anybody for days on end but at the same time too small for all of them to keep ignoring the tension within it. The uneasy peace is driving him mad, because it only forces the building violence to lurk just out of sight, out of reach.

The Doctor, of course, is hiding the best of all of them. To what ends, Jack can't fathom, when all he's successfully keeping from Jack is a good night's sleep, but the Doctor has always been the best at denial, too.

Too restless to sleep, too drained to imagine he's home in Ianto's flat, Jack starts to wander around the dimly-lit halls of the TARDIS. He's sick of waiting for something to happen before he can even start to do anything about it. But, even with the thought of the Doctor clear and gnawing in his mind, searching for him  is like beating someone at Monopoly while they're stealing from the bank. The TARDIS is fiercely loyal and sends Jack on what must be the most circuitous route to the console room possible, via a diving pool Jack didn't know existed and a defunct freezer room full of chocolate in various stages of consumption.

Though he keeps ending up at the secondary console room by accident, he eventually finds the Doctor kneeling under the console, toolbox open and contents scattered within groping distance. Jack doesn't enter, content to watch him for a time.

It's just to check up on him, Jack reminds himself. He seems almost happy like this, busy, and perhaps he'll admit it tugs at him a little more than it should. The Doctor's hand gropes blindly until he extracts a plastic tie from a tangled pile and secures some of the reams of wiring out of his way; stringy lumps of crimson that obscure his head and shoulders from Jack's view. His hips wriggle as he crawls a little closer, the buzz of the sonic screwdriver a welcome noise in the emptiness, and it would be so easy to stride in, slap him jokingly on the ass and draw that easy-going Doctor out from where Jack remembers him. But it's not like that.

As far as Jack can tell, the Doctor disassembles and reassembles the one segment without any benefit besides a well-deserved dusting. He hovers over the adjacent spot as soon as he's finished the first one, before removing the first panel he just finished replacing and doing it all over again. Suddenly feeling like a voyeur, Jack's about to leave, when he turns to come face to face with the Master.

There's not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his suit, and this close he smells of Jack's aftershave. 'Evening, Freak.'

Despite being a couple of heads shorter, the Master manages to size him up with just a flick of his eyes. 'Has he put you outside, again? I thought I'd trained you out of shitting on the floors.'

Jack clamps down hard on that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and instead flashes his most enduringly patient smile, but before he can think of something to say the Master snorts to himself and saunters up to the console.

Eyeing the mess with disgust, the Master carefully treads around the minefield of spare parts and pokes his head under the console, his fingers reaching out for balance and curling possessively over the Doctor's hip.

He spares a quick smirk over his shoulder for Jack's sake before he bends back down, his lips needlessly close to the Doctor's ear. 'Your pet's begging at the door, you might need to feed it.'

The Doctor doesn't even flinch. 'Leave him alone,' he says, but his voice has lost its conviction, like he's said it too many times for it to mean anything now.

Satisfied, the Master leans up again, pacing in a semicircle around the Doctor to survey the console. 'Seems like very tedious work, Doctor.'

'I like it,' the Doctor says, quietly, ignoring him in favour of blowing the dust off a small circuit module.

The Master sighs fondly and reaches into his inside pocket, where he pulls out a perfectly crumpled paper bag, as if he's genuinely left it there from some time ago. 'I don't suppose you'd like a jellybaby for your efforts?'

Jack can see the Doctor hesitate, his back stiffening. 'You know I don't like the green ones.'

Amused, the Master drops the bag on top of the console. 'Suit yourself.'

The Doctor ducks back out onto his feet just in time to see the Master turn to leave, the back of his hand raised in a dismissive wave. This time, as he strides out past Jack, it's the Master wearing the smile and Jack with the glare, and when he risks glancing back at the Doctor he catches him staring out the door, his hand clutched over the bag and something sickeningly close to heartache in his eyes.

Then, he realises they're making eye contact, and Jack leaves before he sees the Doctor's face fall.

His heart pounding, he shoves his hands in his pockets and walks as far away from either of them as he can, until the TARDIS takes him into a gallery cluttered with classical marble busts of human antiquity and several sculptures from a translucent, liquid substance that ripple and flow in response to Jack's movements. There, he paces a path around what little floor is available, until his breathing evens out and he calms down enough to sit against the wall, sighing towards the ceiling.

He starts to wonder how Gwen is faring, on her own again so soon after his absence. Whether Ianto ever managed to find something for his sister's birthday. He fiddles with his wrist strap, knowing he could probably ring them any time he liked with some help from the TARDIS, but it's not worth putting them in any more danger. It's not worth explaining to them why he's here.

Sometimes he hates the Doctor for turning Jack into him.

***

Hours could have easily passed before the anger fades back to worry, and he sets after the Doctor again. Protecting him from the Master (and perhaps more importantly, himself) is the only productive outlet for his frustration, and Jack intends to make the most of it. Exhausted, but too wound up to sleep, what he really craves anyway is a good cup of coffee and something hot and greasy to eat.

The coffee, he fixes himself in the first kitchen the TARDIS takes him to, and forgives her the watery, bitter mess the machine presses out. Years in the army have taught him to be grateful for anything better than instant and the aroma is refreshing, the steam a welcome warmth on his face. It's still nothing like Ianto's.

He misses home more than ever.

No use dwelling; Jack swipes his mug off the counter and gives the wall a friendly stroke, venturing deep into the labyrinthine hallways of the TARDIS. Either she's feeling cooperative, or he's just lucky, but he finds the Doctor within minutes. He hears them well before then.

The shouting is coming from one of the easier rooms to find; the infirmary. Jack keeps a few hallways back to assess the situation, the voices carrying easily to him over the sound of objects smashing.

The Master's voice is the first he makes out— _'Out! Get out or I swear to Rassilon himself I'll kill you first and then every last stinking ape…!'_ —livid in a way he's only heard him the day the Valiant fell. Then the Doctor, pleading, _'I can help you! Let me in,_ please _,'_ before something glass and fragile shatters amidst the Doctor's yelping, followed by something larger, the clang echoing down the halls. The next exchange he can't quite decipher before the Master's voice cuts in, suddenly, _'—and don't you ever,_ ever _dare try that again, filthy hypocrite—'_

Then the Doctor bursts out two hallways down from him, shaking, his hand raking through his hair and swiping dark blood off a scratch above his eyebrow. He storms down in his direction, Jack stepping round the corner with his palms raised in surrender, the Doctor stopping dead in his tracks when he catches sight of him.

He lets out a breath, his hand rubbing across his jaw, and his voice sounds raw with relief when he says, ' _Jack_.'

Jack smiles gently at him, and _screw it_ , he embraces the Doctor even as he cringes away, and leads him back towards the kitchen with a hand between his shoulders. 'Come on. I think we could both use a bite to eat.'

He can tell the Doctor's about to say he isn't hungry, but instead he's quiet a moment, and then all he does say is, 'Thankyou.'

Jack leads the Doctor down a right-turn and blessedly the first door they open is the best-stocked kitchen of the four Jack's found, and he immediately sets to work heating a twenty-third century meal-in-a-can for both of them. It only takes a minute, and he sets one down for the Doctor and hands him a spoon, before taking the seat opposite him on the little rickety table.

The Doctor prods at the contents with one hand, the other releasing its stranglehold on a tightly-compacted ball of white paper to fiddle with it in preference to talking. Jack is sure he'll have to break the silence, when the Doctor takes a shaky breath, and speaks.

'Jack—I'm sorry,' he says, looking up from the can to meet his eyes.

Jack laughs a little, in good nature. 'You can't help his tantrums, Doctor. I'd still rather be here than anywhere else.'

The Doctor's eyes are wide. 'For all of it. I know this isn't easy for you.'

Carefully, Jack picks his words, 'Maybe, but you're right. Somebody's got to look after him.'

He picks a little at the can, sniffing a spoonful of what looks like casserole to him. His eyes manage to go even bigger when he says to Jack, 'He's getting better.'

Jack bites his tongue.  'Yeah, you might be right. He still hasn't tried anything on me, yet.'  This is the first chance he's had where the Doctor's actually talking to him, and he's not going to ruin it so easily.

The look on the Doctor's face is almost worth it, the way it lights up, like giving a kid candy after they've grazed their knee. 'I know! I think, Jack, you being here is helping him.'

'You really think you can fix him?' Jack hedges, wanting to stray far away from talking about himself before he says something he regrets.

The Doctor shakes his head, chewing his lip a little. 'It's the drums. I know I can help, he just won't let me.'

'The drums…?' prompts Jack, taking a mouthful of his dinner—surprisingly tasty, the flavour rich and complex.

'The noise in his head. But I think I'm getting through to him and once I take a look, I can stop them—then things will be better, Jack,' the Doctor almost pleads, searching his face with enough desperation that Jack nods firmly just to reassure him.

Jack takes a breath, hesitating, then launches into it anyway. 'This noise in his head...what makes you think it's the solution? I've read the UNIT files.'

'He's…' the Doctor starts, looking down to poke at the meat slices, 'He never used to be like this. Not this bad.'

Jack wets his lips, suddenly dry, and forges on. He might not get another chance to ask it. 'What was he like? ..Before?' The Doctor's eyes dart up to his, fixing him with his gaze intently and Jack gives the smallest of smiles for encouragement, holding his sight.

'He was…' The Doctor looks down again, a smile of his own playing about his lips. Shaking his head, he lets the breath out through his nose, like something too sad to quite be a chuckle. 'Brilliant...absolutely brilliant.'

When Jack catches sight of his eyes again, somewhere far away as they flick off to the side, they're wet with tears. It hurts worse than anything the Doctor's ever done to him. He steels himself just the same, takes a deep breath, doesn't let it shake too hard.

'We'll get him back, Doctor,' Jack nods, setting down his spoon to offer his hand in partnership, consolation—anything.

The Doctor glances at his hand once and catches a hold of himself, then in sudden panic he bolts upright, spoon clanging on the table. 'Jack, I'm sorry, I'm really—'

He doesn't say anything else before he all but runs out of the kitchen, leaving Jack staring at the remains of the paper bag, and the steam still rising from the can.

***

That night, Jack lies awake in Ianto's bed. He feels the need to cry but the tears won't come, a wound still too raw to bleed. He needs to sleep, but he's too afraid to wake up and find everything still waiting for him. Instead, nowhere left to turn, he finds himself breaking his first rule; he opens a new message and starts to type.

> _Dear Ianto,_
> 
> _When I took this trip I didn't think I was going to miss you so much. I think we both already knew this was about more than just sex (don't get me wrong, the sex was more than enough reason to stay)but I don't think I realised how much you meant to me. Maybe even how much I need you._
> 
> _Things are really bad. I can't say much without putting you in danger, but I don't know what to do. Whatever I thought I was going to find here, I was so wrong. I don't even know why I came, none of this is my business and all I can think of is how much I want you here._
> 
> _If I'd known it would be like this, I don't think I would have come at all. Whatever you think I'm doing here, you have to know that when I come home, it's always going to be to you._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Jack_

The tears are pricking his eyes by the time he finishes, but now they've come he only forces them back. By the time on his wrist strap, it's been three weeks since he first stepped aboard the TARDIS; whether time has passed faster or slower relatively for him, he can't tell.

As he's watching the progress bar slowly fill up, the message making its way towards Earth, perhaps light years away by now, his eyes close and somehow awake becomes asleep without him ever noticing the change.

 


	3. II: Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here the story earns its explicit rating, please be mindful of the warnings :) Enjoy!

Jack doesn't wake for a long, long time. He drifts, half asleep for as long as he's able, until his brain is muddled and the space behind his eyes is throbbing. He doesn't entirely know what to do when he gets out of bed and so he puts off facing it as long as possible. Food, perhaps, wouldn't go amiss. He doesn't feel like eating but he craves Ianto's coffee and freshly-cooked eggs, and the homesickness is like he hasn't felt it since his first year at the Time Agency.

Breakfast is a solitary, frustrating affair. After the third slice of toast comes out burnt he realises the Master has jammed the toaster to the highest setting, so he ends up eating jam sandwiches instead. It's such a tiny thing yet he feels so defeated; with the man he loves at last and this is how it is, waking up alone, eating cold, soggy sandwiches because even after all he's just second-best.

Today, he sits in the TARDIS's greenhouse, tossing crumbs to the small family of sparrows the Doctor has managed to lose in here. He has his mind made to find the Doctor and try talk to him again, but before he tackles that particular can of worms he savours the time he has finding a little peace for himself. He checks his inbox repeatedly though he knows it's self-defeating, but can't resist the thought that a reply could be on its way and its unexpected little spark of strength.

Allowing himself a deep sigh, Jack rises to his feet and starts looking. First, he makes his way to the console room, to find it peacefully empty. The console thrums with energy under his hand, the columns oscillating gently as the TARDIS navigates a quiet pocket of the Vortex. It's surprisingly reassuring to remember that there are greater powers at work than either of them, the forces of Time that they are all subject to.

He finds the Doctor in a room he's never seen before, a high-ceilinged, ornate space, rich with baroque furniture in deep reds and browns. Lit by elaborate chandeliers (though Jack sees no candles in their holders) and a fireplace in a room off to the side, it's a warm, cosy room, moreso than the TARDIS's regular fare, plush cushions scattered across leather chaise lounges sorely tempting him to wait here instead. But Jack hears voices from beneath the flickering of the fireplace, and he edges a little closer, peeking around a grandfather clock to make some sense of the situation.

The Doctor and the Master sit, almost touching in the centre an old lounge, the weight of their bodies sinking them closer together. The Doctor pores excitedly over what looks like a stone tablet atop a marble chess table, tracing his finger over patterns Jack can't make out at this distance. The Master is content to lean back and watch him, the twist of his lips anything but companionable.

'Doctor, you can't be serious,' the Master sighs, catching a hold of the Doctor's wrist as he almost elbows him in the midst of his gesturing, 'the Sixteenth Belt of Desolation is exactly that. _Desolate_.'

The Doctor suddenly goes quiet, a moment, his eyes too wide as they stare back at the Master. Then the words bubble up again from somewhere inside him, '—Well exactly! Because nobody's ever explored it before, _nobody_ has ever stepped foot on these asteroids—'

'Except for him, yes Doctor, and he carved a map of the largest into the wall of his observatory, before he threw himself off the telescope, I'm well aware,' the Master finishes, releasing the Doctor to rub at his temples. 'I would like to emphasise the part where he splattered to his death _in the opium crops covering every inch of his land_ , because obviously, the mad ravings of a heroin addict are to be trusted.'

The Doctor raises his eyebrows, his voice a little softer with the thrill of adventure, 'And the mad ones aren't sometimes the sanest of them all…?'

Even from here, Jack can see the moment when their eyes meet, the spark of long ago that passes between them as bright as it ever was. The Master's face softens, just a moment, and then the devilish excitement Jack is so used to seeing from him lifts back into place, but there's something a little more whole in it and he feels sick, can't stand watching it even a second longer, somehow childishly afraid they're going to kiss when he knows it's ridiculous—

' _Stop_!' Jack yells, his feet carrying him into the room before he's even realised it, glaring daggers at the Master. 'You can't seriously think he _cares_ , Doctor!' Jack feels a little more vindicated now the tables are turned; the hurt in the Doctor's huge brown eyes is almost palpable.

 The Master barely reacts at all, tilting his gaze towards Jack in a cruel sneer. 'If it isn't your Freak again, Doctor, sticking its nose where it doesn't belong. That's the problem with them; you let them eat at the table, you give them clothes, let them up on the furniture and suddenly they think they're one of you! And then,' he pauses, grinning at Jack like it's genuinely amusing to him, 'then they get jealous.'

The Doctor looks between them, unable to decide who to direct his anger on, until he finally settles hard eyes on Jack. 'Get out.'

Completely incredulous, Jack can't help laughing. 'Doctor, you've got a mass-murdering psychopath locked up in your TARDIS and you're _flirting_ with him? He's playing you like a goddamn fiddle!'

The Doctor is about to say something when the Master cuts him off, a reassuring hand too high on his thigh. 'It's alright, Doctor, it always takes a while for them to adjust to a new pecking order.'

Frustrated, the Doctor looks up at Jack, hurt and anger and betrayal, and turns away from them both to hiss something in Gallifreyan until he repeats, this time with sorrow, 'Out.'

The Master smoothly rises to his feet, ruffling the back of Jack's hair in a parody of affection as he turns to leave. 'No need, Doctor, it obviously needs you more than I do -  they come round, you know, you just have to put them in their place.'

Then he's gone.

Jack can only stand there, jaw dropped open. The Doctor turns back to his tablet, steadfastly ignoring him. Jack tosses up whether there's anything to say, whether to slap him across the face, whether to put his arms around him and never stop, until the echoes of the Master's footsteps have faded to silence.

'It doesn't matter what he is,' says the Doctor quietly, voice raw at the edges, 'I'm his only hope.'

Jack takes one last look. Defeated, he leaves.

 

***

 

The words have already formed on his lips as he storms down the hallway, the arguments and the _things_ he could say to the Doctor that he's bitten back every time he's had the chance, but Jack fights to stay calm. Getting him angry is exactly what the Master wants.

He walks, aimlessly, back and forth down corridors that change as often as his direction does, until the TARDIS takes him to his room. He tries to take a book off Ianto's shelf but reads the same lines over and over again without ever keeping track of the words, sits and paces and sinks to the carpet and leans against the bed, the fury swirling inside him, useless and with nowhere to go.

Jack takes out his pistol, its weight a comfort in his hand. There's a still-oily cloth in his pocket and he cleans it, methodically, regaining a little more control.  The repetition gives  focus to his thoughts until he knows what he's going to say. He thinks it over, slowly, plays out every avenue with military fastidiousness.

The anger still burns behind his mind, shoved out of reach. He knows he should wait, shouldn't let it interfere with what he has to do, but he's so endlessly sick of the inaction, the waiting, the slip of time washing it all away to stagnate.

He just has to get the Doctor alone.

The TARDIS's light cycle is dimming by the time he steps out and takes the path that usually heads to the console room. It's halfway there that he hears the rhythmic _thump_ in the TARDIS's hum, feels it vibrating through the walls—then he realises it's music.

Perplexed, the beginnings of worry beating in his chest, he follows the noise at an almost-jog, the corridors twisting and turning until he can make out the echo of high vocals over the pulse of the bass. It's so loud the distortion makes it impossible to hear more than that, but tells him he's still some distance away yet. It takes him to an unfamiliar part of the TARDIS, the lighting poor and the décor giving way to the bare roundels of the console room, the walls patterned with supply lines and bundles of wiring visible where panelling has been stripped away. None of it can be good.

He shoves another door open, heavy and reinforced, and the sound pressure hits him with a physical force, battering against his rib cage. And he knows this song.

He's heard it many times since ( _but how many heartaches must I stand before I find a love to let me live again_ ) but it's the very first that comes to mind, he and Estelle, and the radio on her kitchen table they'd danced around ( _right now the only thing that keeps me hanging on_ ).

He's running, now, the music coming from everywhere, but the TARDIS leads him true through rooms lit only by the reds of emergency lights ( _you can't hurry love no you just have to wait)_ and a cloying mist hanging in the air, and it's so loud now he can't even make out the words over the ringing in his ears but he knows them well enough—

The Doctor, naked, his wrists bound to a pipe well over his head, forehead braced against the concrete of the wall, and the Master behind him, sleeves rolled around his elbows stained dark and the _screaming_ , it's so _so_ loud it cuts over the pain in his ears and then it falls off to laughter; broken, hysterical.

Jack's heart lurches to the floor.

Even through the mist and the cycling red, the shadows of machinery, he can see it; the blood running down the Doctor's legs, shining wet on the Master's suit trousers, where the leather belt has cut the Doctor's wrists and when his head's been slammed into the wall, the Master's dark-gloved hand fisted deep in his hair, the other braced hard into the bone of his hip while he forces himself out and back in, and his entire length glistening red with it.

And the Doctor laughs. Tears still wet down his face, it could be sobbing, the way his face clenches in pain and his body slams against the wall but Jack knows better, can see the come smeared on the concrete in front of him and it's not even _dry_ _yet_. Sweat drips off the Master's forehead, grinning even as he fights for breath and in those flickers, between the spasms of pain, it's bliss the Doctor gasps in, his eyes flying shut. His toes scrabble for purchase on the grating and Jack can see the purple edge of bruises across the back of his knees, his thighs, before the Master shoves in again and he can't hear the yelp but he can see the Doctor's hands clenching spasmodically, the white of his teeth gritted tight together.

They've probably already seen him but he leaves the doorway and runs, runs until he hears nothing but his ears still ringing, his head pounding and fit to burst because he _keeps seeing it_.

He realises, somehow, he's in Ianto's room. He drops to the floor where he sits, the images an endless loop in his head and it shouldn't hit him like this because he knew it all along, but it does. And even after what feels like an age has passed, despite himself, he's still stubbornly hard.

He doesn't want to. He really, really doesn't want to, but now it's there he knows it's been so long and almost nothing will help now. He thinks of Ianto as he takes himself in hand, but it still takes forever, until everything is raw and hurting, and to stop at last is a relief.

He sits there, immobile, for long hours afterwards, relishing guilt now so absolute it almost masks the pain.

 

***

 

There's nothing to do. Even long after it's all faded and numb to him, he sits, whiling time away in the books on the shelf, the contents of the drawers, sorely wondering if perhaps it's time to just go _home_.

Then there's a beep from his wrist strap. Almost hardly daring to believe it, Jack flips the cover open and before he's even read the message waiting there, a smile tugs at his lips.

 

> _Sir,_
> 
> _Sometimes, you know you can be an absolute idiot. We both know why you're here and it's because for whatever reason, you love him and you always have._
> 
> _Maybe you didn't notice, but it hasn't once escaped me that you might love him, but you need_ me _. I think you ought to know that that's why this will always be more than just sex to me. You came back for_ me _, Sir. You're a complete moron if you think I don't know you'd do it a thousand times again._
> 
> _You're here because he needs your help and he doesn't have anybody coming back for him if you won't._
> 
> _I am really very sorry to hear things to be so bad. Keep strong, Sir, I know you wouldn't have gone unless you knew you could handle it. Home is much closer than you think._
> 
> _Thinking of you always, (you could ask Owen, but please don't)_
> 
> _Your Ianto_

 

And it's a surprise to even himself, but Jack can't help laugh, or keep grinning even when the chuckles subside. His Ianto.  He's right, too; the Doctor needs him. It's like a breath of fresh air, after so long trapped without the light, to remember what he's fighting for.

Unable to keep the smile off his face, he scrambles onto Ianto's bed and undoes the buttons of his shirt. Jack spares just a few minutes experimenting with the most suggestive pose possible until he's satisfied enough to snap a picture, and types a quick, cheeky message concerning the things Ianto leaves lying around in his room. He's still laughing softly as he sends it.

Because home isn't back on Earth: it's right here in his single heart, in what they share, and the strength it gives him. And it's something that, despite everything he's gone through at the Doctor's hands, still cannot be touched.

Then Jack's heart seizes in his chest before he registers the cloister bell, loud and reverberating through his room, and the lights darken to emergency red, the moment lost to blinding panic as he stumbles out in the darkness.

 


	4. II: Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very sorry to have left this a good month in the lurch, I like to stay a chapter ahead of what I'm posting. But I've made a start on the next chapter so hey, why not post! Thank you all for your lovely feedback :)
> 
> In this edition the Master and Jack take their very own journey to the centre of the TARDIS...

Jack sprints towards the console room, guided by the dull red of the TARDIS's lights through only the most direct route, the other corridors black and ominous. The cloister bell is so oppressively loud he can't tell if he's hearing it with his ears or his head, a psychic tug drawing him ever closer just the same. He skids into the console room, tripping over the grating as the TARDIS gives a particularly violent shudder, metal screeching from the strain.

The Doctor, likewise on the floor, picks himself up with a fluid energy and throws himself back at the console, wrenching three levers at once with any available limbs until the one under his trainer snaps in half. Jack hooks an arm around the railing and clings on for dear life as the centre of gravity slips under his feet, throwing him to the edges of the room, the Doctor's shouting drowned out by the toll of the bell.

Squinting against the clamour, Jack can see the Master, swearing and fastening his tie around the railing as a makeshift anchor before he staggers towards the console, hissing as it sparks at him.

'Doctor!' Jack yells, still trying to get his feet back under him, 'What the hell has he done!'

The Doctor opens his mouth and closes it like a fish out of water, not quite able to meet Jack's eyes as he splutters, 'Nothing! No, no, it's—come on, _come on—_ some kind of engine malfunction, she's losing power—'

'Idiot!' spits the Master, jerking burnt fingertips away from the controls, 'Land the bloody thing! Before we fall out of the Vortex and _die_ in the nearest neutron star, you absolute, colossal _moron_!'

Jack's lunge for his throat is interrupted by another fierce jolt, tossing him against the console's edge where his hip flares so brightly with pain it sends his vision dark, until the Doctor's voice cuts back in.

'—I can't! She won't throw up the temporal shielding, if I could put her in idle I could purge the engines,' he yells back, clinging to the controls.

Bracing one foot against the railing, the Master slides the loop of his tie further along, yanks it taut, and hauls himself closer to the Doctor. 'Well that's damn likely to work with no power, isn't it? Lock the coordinates and extend the temporal stabiliser, that'll keep us all in the same timestream, long as you can land anywhere without popping outside for a fucking picnic!'

'How?' grits out the Doctor, still pulling on something suspiciously like a handbrake, 'It hasn't worked properly for years!'

' _Rassilon's rod_ , Doctor, what did you do, stick your cock in it?'

'What? No!' the Doctor shouts, 'She flies just fine with it on static!'

The Master claws his way over Jack, taking the excuse of the wild gravity slips to kick him in the side on the way. Jack growls a warning, but it's rendered silent by the bell and the shouting of the two Time Lords.

 'You sentimental fool, Doctor!' the Master roars, hauling the Doctor back to the controls as the ground drops again, 'Call off your senile pile of rust and let me land it, if you won't!'

The Doctor's mouth presses into a thin line, his eyes glaring fire down at the Master. 'No. You know I can't do that.'

Jack clings to his rung, feet dangling towards the console, as the Master first laughs, then splutters in complete incredulity at the Doctor.  'You've got to be joking. I'm the only other person who can fly this thing and you seriously think I'm going to do what, exactly, Doctor—fly us on top of a butterfly and undo the human race?'

Jack grits his teeth and looks to the Doctor, urging him not to believe him, to listen to Jack just this once—then the lights go completely dark.

The toll of the cloister bell softens, a dull, corporeal thud, now sounding quite some distance away. The console glows, mutely, casting their faces in sharp relief as Jack's eyes adjust, the TARDIS giving a deep, enormous shudder. The central rotor grinds to a halt, the entire TARDIS vibrating beneath their feet, and  there's an unnameable _tugging_ feeling, deep in his stomach like dread and pulling everywhere at once.

The Doctor looks suddenly and violently ill, his fingers tightening on the edge of the console as he leans over it and gasps for breath, but the Master seems unfased save for a twist at the corner of his lips.

'Rassilon save me,' snarls the Master, seizing the Doctor's hand and slamming it down on a switch, 'the auxiliary power, you idiot!'

The lights don't return, but the shudder increases in frequency and volume, rattling Jack's teeth in his jaw, the makeshift controls on the console.  The tugging feeling settles into something like the drop down a rollercoaster, but the Doctor is still agitated, checking a counter on the console and twisting a knob in response.

'This won't keep her in flight for much longer,' he says, voice shaking with the vibration. 'We have to go and purge the engines manually.'

The Master holds his gaze for a long while, weighing their options. When he speaks, it's with quiet resignation. 'Then stop wasting time and do it, Doctor.'

Flicking the knob a few turns to the right and the pitch of the vibration increasing in return, the Doctor shakes his head just once. 'Can't. There's no power on the autopilot systems.'

'Then I'll do it myself. I doubt anybody else could make sense of this mess you've made, anyway,' the Master scoffs, looking down at the paperweight the Doctor's scavenged for a trackball.

Unable to hold his tongue, Jack blurts, 'Do you really think that's a good idea?'

'Ah—no.' The Doctor opens his mouth, hesitating. 'That's why you're going to do it. I've already programmed your biosignature as an exception to the isomorphic lock.'

The Master's expression stays carefully guarded, though Jack can see the spark of jealousy in the amber of his eyes. He feels a tiny flare of hope, the Doctor's trust something Jack has always considered precious and never quite dared to believe he'd been owed.

'The Freak?' says the Master, his voice icy, 'I see.'

'And he's coming with you to give instructions,' adds the Doctor, his gaze flicking between them.

The Master snorts to himself quietly and unwinds his tie.

Jack doesn't say anything. Already the rage is bubbling up and he thinks if he gets the chance, he can shove the Master into the engines himself and this nightmare will be over. He picks himself off his feet, looking up into the Doctor's adrenaline-wide eyes for reassurance, the gash on his forehead just closed over and the bruising still dark behind it.

His smirk turning cruelly sour, the Master takes a handful of Jack's shirt and shoves him with surprising strength towards the door. 'You first, Freak; you're replaceable.'

There's a final, violent jolt, Jack twisting back towards the console in time to see the Doctor jerk his head back down and throttle a few controls, neglected.

Jack keeps it all tightly under grip until they make it well out of earshot, following corridors lit sporadically only by dull red. Then he whirls and it feels _so damn good_ to seize the Master's neck and throw him into the wall, tighten his grip and pin him there and feel the thud all the way through the soles of his feet.

The Master's breath leaves him in a gasp, his lips parted, his eyes so heavily slitted Jack wonders if he's getting off on it. And it only makes him angrier.

' _What did you do_!' Jack roars, slamming his head against the panelling again for good measure.

The Master's lips quirk into a lazy grin. 'Let go.'

A chill washes over Jack's thoughts, paralysing, and he fights it but it's like trying to hold back a tidal wave, until just as suddenly it recedes from his mind, out to sea. And when his awareness snaps back his arms are by his sides, his feet a step further away. The Master is casually leaning against the wall, retrieving his tie from his pocket and slipping it back over his neck.

He cuts him off before the words finish forming in Jack's throat. 'Before I'm the victim of any more testosterone imbalances, try use that monkey brain of yours and _think_ , for once. How could it possibly serve me to end up dead in this useless old relic of a time travel capsule?'

Jack exhales out through his nose, his lips too busy clamping shut as hard as he can manage, determined not to let this get the best of him.

The Master raises his eyebrows expectantly, swiftly reknotting his tie. 'I don't gamble, Freak. Ever.'

'And you expect me to believe that? You had nothing to do with this?' Jack laughs, leaving him be for now.

'Why should I?' says the Master, fingers deftly tightening the knot and setting the material crisp and straight. 'In the time you've been on board, exactly what have I done?'

Jack's fingers clench involuntarily, sick of this stupid, pointless pretence. 'Plenty. I'm not stupid.'

'Let's see...I offered the Doctor lollies. I cleaned the kitchen. I read the Doctor's map. Stuff of nightmares, that,' says the Master dryly, stepping forward off the wall. Then he pauses. 'Wait. It was the toast, wasn't it?'

Speechless, Jack watches him take another couple of steps closer, surveying him with a far too discerning eye.

'Or,' the Master begins, pleasantly, rolling the word about his tongue, 'Perhaps you just can't accept that the Doctor _wants_ me to fuck him.'

That pit in his stomach suddenly sinks, somewhere deeper and colder than rage. 'Shut up.'

The Master's voice is breathy, the ends of his words dragging on too-wet lips. 'And maybe there's no grand scheme, no tricks behind the scenes. Maybe this is all there really is to the great and noble Doctor.'

'It's not,' Jack growls, turning to walk.

'You think you know him, Jack?' chuckles the Master quietly, Jack halting in his step. 'Two hundred years? Two hundred years and he was still screaming my name under the stars.'

Jack falls silent. He realises he's fallen behind when the Master's hand tightens in his shirt a second time, his breath warm against his ear. 'Move, Freak. I won't tell you again.'

He suddenly realises how _old_ he is, can't help the shiver the touch sends down his spine. He stumbles back in front and then it's gone.

The Master's right; he can't accept that. And he won't.

It feels like he's walking to the gallows as they travel deeper into the TARDIS, Jack fighting the urge to fidget, to look over his shoulder at the soft tap of the Master's footsteps on the floor. He keeps his head firmly fixed in front and follows the lighting, the ground sloping away at his feet and giving the uncanny sensation that they're deep underground.

His suspicions are all-but-confirmed when he recognises these as the same barren hallways Jack followed what must be less than a day ago.

It's warm. Really, really warm, the heat sticking in the mist and the steam, the metal of the walls and pipes hot to the touch. Jack imagines this must be what it's like to climb down the rim of an active volcano, the heat thick and steam in his eyes, the fear of not returning.

'Stop,' orders the Master, Jack berating himself when he realises he's waiting for permission to turn around and look. The Master is leaning over a screen inset in the wall, something like an LED panel or a digital clock, set with concentric circles and backlit in certain segments to display symbols.

There's a simple row of buttons, and a slider beneath it, the Master tapping them and a series of Gallifreyan words flashing in quick succession.

'What does it say?' asks Jack, not liking the insistent blink of the same set of symbols every few seconds.

The Master smirks back at him. 'Nothing you'd be capable of understanding, Freak. Get moving.'

Jack does, not sure whether he's afraid the TARDIS will crash, of the Master thinking it necessary to invade his mind again, or if he just has nothing left to fight for. They keep walking.

'Here,' calls the Master, a few steps behind him now, gesturing to a heavy steel door. 'Open it.'

Scowling, Jack backtracks, shooting him a look as he reaches for the latch, and violently whips his hand away when he finds it's searing hot.

The Master seizes his wrist. 'I said,' he enunciates, the words bitten off, ' _Open_ it.' And he presses Jack's hand to the metal, crushing his fingers around the handle, Jack gasping with the pain until finally the Master releases him and he yanks the latch up and out towards him, his skin obscenely sticking to the steel when he rips his hand away. The heat hits them like a wall.

Jack gapes down at the Master, lips twisting in satisfaction, his breath catching between gritted teeth as he looks down at the thick stripe of half-melted flesh down his palm, the raw pink underneath it.

Tugging on a pair of leather gloves, the Master plants a hand in his back and shoves him. 'In _front_ , Freak.'

Still trying to catch his breath, the pain only worsening, Jack squints against the rippling heat and curls his good hand across his forehead. The way ahead is so bright he can't see, barely even aware of his feet on the ground. His mind collapses down to nothing but the heat and the pain and putting one foot in front of another, resolute.

'Can't go any further,' Jack calls behind him, when finally between the light and the heat the water feels like it's sizzling off his eyeballs, his skin crisping.

The Master squints ahead, his lips pressed into a firm line. 'This way.' He hesitates for a moment before a small hatch and then kicks it open, his expression cringing with distaste. Jack ducks in front of him, cradling his burnt hand, the Master close behind, the access tunnel only jutting in a small amount of the way before it turns left on a sharp corner, back in their original direction.

Jack comes to another of the heavy steel doors, the upper half once-transparent glass now yellowed with age and wear. He hazards a look through it, trying to make out what lies beyond, and unthinkingly backs away when the Master draws near.

'These things are going to go up,' the Master hisses, leaning to try get a better view, 'Can't flush them without a full shut down.'

'Where are the controls?' Jack asks, the air feeling like it's sapping all the moisture from his throat.

The Master points at something like a fusebox on the wall. 'That panel. If it was that easy, Freak, he wouldn't have sent you.'

'Easy?' Jack echoes.

'These engines can't be shut down. The only way to do it is to cut off the fuel completely,' snaps the Master, pulling open the metal cover and sighing in frustration as the system boots.

The screen is completely unreadable to Jack and he hates this position that the Doctor's put him in all the more; the Doctor's stupid religious trust. 'Why not?'

'Think Chernobyl, Freak.' The Master pulls a keyboard out from under the screen. 'Tap those two buttons, then hold the green one.'

Jack does, wincing as it stretches the burn on his palm. 'Ah, right.'

'Let go.' The Master turns away from the screen and looks him straight in the eye. 'When this bloody thing finishes loading, the fuel valves will shut automatically. After that we'll have no power and you'll have to throw the switch by hand to flush the engines, and do it very, _very_ quickly.'

'What?' Jack says, his voice bordering on panic, 'How!'

'Through there,' the Master says, jerking a thumb at the door, 'Big red lever. You humans have figured out primary colours, haven't you?'

Jack lets his jaw drop open again. 'But won't we crash?'

The Master smiles fondly. 'I doubt it. The Doctor was always an atrocious pilot but he was still a damn sight better than the other idiots in the Academy. He'll manage.'

'Can't you do it from in here?' Jack insists, one eye on the inferno outside, the other on the progress bar inching past fifty percent.

'No,' scowls the Master, 'Not in this museum piece. There's a reason this thing was decommissioned when the Doctor stole it—reckless git.'

Sixty percent. Jack hedges another look outside, squinting at a glimpse of red somewhere on the far left. 'Is that survivable?'

'I don't think that's applicable, in your case,' the Master shrugs.

Jack watches the very last sliver of the bar fill, and  immediately the background thrum shudders to a halt, the roaring heat outside smouldering down to a dull glow. He feels like he's sinking again, falling in every direction, through it all the Master shouting at him to go, and he shoves the door forwards, the heat and the pain lost to the knowledge that they only have minutes.

He's burning alive, he knows, closing his eyes and groping his way across, opening them to light and the searing dull of his nerve endings destroyed and lost to the inferno. Somehow he sees it, he isn't sure if it's entirely with his eyes, the lever a long red bar just over his head and he staggers, muscles seizing, feeling it by the pressure of his hands curling stiffly around something hard and pulling with whatever strength he has left. There's a blast like wind, throwing him back against the wall and he's screaming but nothing comes out, crawling and dragging his body to the little indent in the wall and the panel of glass. The force of it feels like it's shredding him, a leaf in a tornado, all his pieces tearing and rubbing away but he fights it, and then something is tugging him in the other direction and away.

Then there's cool, and quiet, and dark. He can't see anything, can't feel the surface under him, but there's a tight pressure beneath his chin and around his neck.

He can hear laughter, dull and soft and far away. Then, too real, too loud, he hears a _crack—_ and there's nothing.

***

 


	5. II: Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a slower chapter this time and a little longer, too. The more that gets resolved, the more that goes unresolved...! :) As always, enjoy!

***

Jack regains consciousness on a gasp, crumpled against the sides of the access tunnel. The Master is leaning against the opposite wall,  watching the control panel though Jack can still feel the eyes on him. The realisation is the first thought he has.

Jack doesn't wait to catch his breath. 'You...you _killed_ me.'

The Master gives a scandalous little laugh. 'I put you out of your misery, Freak. You should be thanking me.'

'Did it work?' Jack hedges, peering around the tunnel. The TARDIS's hum is low and gentle again, the lighting dim but warm. He feels like a kid in school who's just embarrassed himself by answering his own question.

Suddenly aware of how _close_ they are his skin crawls, his body surging with adrenaline as if it hasn't quite caught up with events. The Master knows he's right, somewhere, on some level, and Jack hates that he is, because he can't just _let this go_ when he's had too many deaths by those hands to accept it like it's some kind of fucking peace offering—

'Planning to lie there all day?' mutters the Master, the keyboard snapping loudly as he folds it back into the wall.

Composed, Jack gets to his feet and walks. The tension is so palpable he thinks he might understand it all a little better; danger and crisis so large it can overwhelm the awful truth. Always too much adrenaline to think.

Jack hurries through the corridors, wanting to put as much distance between him and those calm footsteps as possible. He feels like a rat in a trap; running from the Master when he knows there's nowhere else to go but face the Doctor when he doesn't even think he can forgive him this time. And what other choice is there? Avoid and pretend it's fine, lie with every word and look and only resort to honesty when lives depend on it?

He thinks he's lost the Master as he comes out into the TARDIS's panelled, habitable areas. He catches his breath but doesn't look back, because if he waits any longer he'll probably find out. Heart weakly pounding, he heads on faster than before, ignoring the worsening shake of his limbs.

Then, closer than he remembers, there's the console room. His mind conjures the uncomfortable image of a rat running face first into the bars of its cage.

He can see the Doctor, shifting around the instruments and breathing stiffly. The manic energy has left him all the more obviously a broken shell and watching is actually worse than watching it happen, every movement painting another picture in Jack's mind. Of course the Doctor's not fine when nobody's looking.

He must be breathing heavily because the Doctor notices him in seconds. Jack steps inside, leaning as casually as he can against the railing, giving the Doctor his distance.

The Doctor's breath hesitates, poised over his open lips for too long before it becomes speech. 'Are you okay?'

 _He killed me with his own hands_ , Jack desperately wants to say, and then before he can even open his mouth the Master strides between them grinning like the Cheshire cat and Jack has never wanted to kill anybody so much in his life.

'Another victory for the gang, eh?' he says, examining the console, 'Think we should give the Freak a Scooby Snack?'

The Doctor stares back down at the controls. 'We're holding steady flight around Califeran Three just until I can pull her diagnostics, but everything should be in working order now.'

Jack grits his teeth together and stays as silent as he can.

The Master gives his best pout. 'Oh, Doctor, you're no fun at all.' He crosses the distance between them in moments and Jack's stomach just _drops_ , the Master grasping the Doctor's jaw roughly and pinning him against the console with a fierce kiss.

Jack's whole body goes rigid,  fighting with every modicum of strength he has to stay still, to just _stand there_ while the Doctor flinches back against the TARDIS, hands twitching, the Master pressing a knee between his thighs and forcing his mouth apart with his grip. He won't let him see, he won't move won't even blink, and then the Doctor's eyes fall back open to the murder Jack can't keep from his expression, and at last he pushes the Master away.

Extremely satisfied, the Master dabs his mouth clean on the back of one glove, not even the width of his hand enough to hide his smile. Jack watches him watch the Doctor, stumbling closer with those too wide eyes, Jack's name escaping his flushed-pink lips in something that would have sounded sorrowed if it wasn't rough with lust.

'I'm sorry,' the Doctor says, and 'I really am, Jack.'

The damage is done, though, and the Master leaves, and with him any doubt of that.

Jack presses his lips together and stares coldly. He wonders if there's anything the Doctor could possibly say to fix this mess, to make it better. He stares as hard as he can like he can somehow _make_ the Doctor understand by sheer force of will.

The Doctor cringes from his gaze, licking his lips. He turns to the console and fixes his attention there, his whole body stiff with tension. The anger bubbles up inside him, so, so many things he could say, all of them in danger of bursting out any moment without warning. The struggle to keep them at bay takes every bit of energy, his feet rooted to the spot and his teeth clenched so hard it hurts.

The silence is overwhelming, the Doctor hunching further over the console and hazarding glances from the peripheral of his vision, his fingers idly stroking the edge as if it's a hand to hold at the dentist. Jack's mouth suddenly opens, the words forcing their way through, but even through the _yearning_ to just let it out he finds he can't bring himself to do it.

He spots the Doctor's eyes slide closed, the strain in his face visible for just a moment before they open to the hollow determination Jack hates to find so familiar.

Jack almost pities him. The longer he looks, the harder it is to be angry. He reminds himself it's what the Master wants, that's the _point_ of all this, and somebody has to be stronger than both of them. He's always known that's his advantage; he can be what the Doctor can't.

Ianto's words echo unbidden in his head. _You wouldn't have gone unless you could handle it._ Maybe he can't find it in him to forgive the Doctor, no, and maybe he never will, but he'll die for good before he lets the Master get the better of him.

 _Home turf_ , Jack thinks, _this isn't the Valiant anymore, and he doesn't have the upper hand unless you give it to him_.

He knows the advantage starts here, right now, with the choice he makes, and he chooses to take it.

Pulling the smile back onto his face, Jack steps closer, letting the warmth fill his voice. 'Hey, how long do the diagnostics take to run?'

'About—' the Doctor starts, his head jerking up, 'Erm, a few minutes, if I can remember how to do it.'

Allowing the smile to tug into a grin, Jack walks over and lounges on the seat. 'I'm amazed you can find anything in that head of yours.' He breathes easily, trying to let it slip away, project some kind of normality back.

'Actually,' the Doctor begins, slowly, turning to Jack for reassurance, 'Did lose something in my head once. One of those Time Lord memory tricks, it's sort of—well, you create a kind of…well. Difficult to explain.'

'Try me,' Jack prompts kindly, 'Psychic training was a big part of the Time Agency.'

Pressing a few controls, the Doctor shifts around to face him. 'Bit like a mnemonic, more like a carpark really, you sort of create an internal architecture to store the information, has to be based off your own individual thought patterning—you know, word associations, you say banana and I say never did find that pair of trousers—so really it looks like some sort of Escher drawing unless you think in exactly the right way. Actually,' the Doctor adds, scratching his left sideburn, 'That's exactly what an Escher drawing is.'

Jack tries hard not to think of the bruises under his suit. 'Don't tell me; another alien?'

'That skin infection? Not a skin infection,' nods the Doctor, his eyes drifting to some memory or other. 'Where was I? Secure mnemonic constructs. So once you have your theoretical building, or tree, or lattice structure of unbihexium crystal, you can store something on a logical path fairly securely and retrieve it at will. Course, I lost where I was keeping a whole planet, but no need to bore you with the details of _that_ mishap.'

Jack gives an appraising raise of his eyebrows. 'Pretty neat. Don't worry, Doctor, I'll spare you the embarrassment.'

There's a short silence, the Doctor's eyes darting to him once before he quickly gets back to calibrating some instrument against another, his shoulders hunching tight inwards. Giving in, Jack's about to get to his feet and leave, when he sees the Doctor still. The moment, heavy with expectation, drags on and on.

'So. Torchwood, eh?' the Doctor murmurs, still facing the central column.

Jack resists the urge to punch the air. _Yes_. 'I think you'd like what I've done with the place. I'm trying to change things up a bit.'

The Doctor sighs heavily. 'Oh, no, I believe you, Jack. I don't suppose those changes would include leaving the guns at home?'

'No,' Jack answers, firmly; this one is an old question. 'You have your people, and I have mine, and I'll do anything to protect them.'

Silence is the answer to that, the quiet of mourning. It's hard on them both. The Doctor, unsurprisingly, is the first to break it, spinning around. 'Doctor Sato! Yes? Lovely girl, very clever, don't really think medicine was her thing. And one Martha Jones on occasion?'

'Yes,' says Jack, 'Her name's Toshiko and she was covering for the real doctor; that's Owen. Then there's Gwen, who I seriously hope you have the pleasure of meeting. Smart, Welsh and feisty, I swear, if there's an opening in the companion slot—'

'There's not,' interrupts the Doctor, his tone harshening.

Jack takes a slow breath. 'Martha's visited, a couple of times. She's got a cushy new job with UNIT.'

The Doctor seems to deflate at that. 'Good on her.'

'And then there's Ianto,' Jack says, carefully. 'Does the coffee.'

'Awful stuff,' the Doctor complains, 'I like mine with a good few spoons of omnitose, did you have that in the 51st Century?'

Sighing, Jack nods. 'Yeah. You _do_ know you're meant to eat that one granule per serving only, right?'

'No,' the Doctor pouts, fiddling with the cuff of his suit jacket, 'Well. I did afterwards.'

'Wish I'd seen that,' grins Jack, leaning forward and resting his elbow on his knee.

Silence reigns a little longer, the Doctor smiling until it turns hollow, like the plastic of a mask stretched over his teeth. He turns back to the console, fiddling idly, watching the gentle rise and fall of the flutes within the column. The atmosphere dwindles and then fades entirely, a flame guttering in the dirt.

'I...I should just check her circuits, just to be sure,' the Doctor mumbles, easing down stiffly and pulling the tool box out from under the console with a taut grimace.

Knowing his time is up, Jack nods. 'Call me if you need anything.' He leaves the Doctor to his work, senseless and ceaselessly repetitive, he's sure.

Taking a long route back to his room, Jack is suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. The day is so immeasurably long he can barely even remember where it began. And somehow, among all the exhaustion, the toll it's taken on him, he no longer feels anxious and restless. He leaves the Doctor with a small measure, however tiny, of hope. And of happiness; that he could have made the Doctor happy.

And, perhaps, that for the first time since the Valiant, they spoke and didn't mention the Master once.

Curling into Ianto's sheets, Jack sighs in content. He flicks open his wrist strap and types a quick message.

 

> _Dear Ianto,_
> 
> _Really long, awful day. I'm about to try catch some sleep, it was really nice to see your message._
> 
> _How are you all going?_
> 
> _Thinking of you lots,_
> 
> _Jack_

Falling asleep is very easy, the world drifting into black the second Jack closes his eyes.

***

Jack wakes up to voices chattering excitedly outside his room. He yawns, his thoughts fuzzy from sleep, so very tempted to pull the covers over his bed and just stay there where it's soft and warm, but the events of the day come back to him too soon for that.

He hauls himself out of bed, resolving not to let the Doctor out of his sight, if he can afford it. Tugging on some clothes as quickly as he can, he goes to find them.

Next to his room is a door he hasn't seen before, a slanted, cupboard-like thing. Without hesitation, Jack opens it, peering inside at a dusty old closet that stretches well past the distance the light travels in from the corridor. Fumbling against the wall for some kind of light switch, Jack finds a cord, and pulls.

Dusty is perhaps an understatement; many shelves are coated thick with it. The air is so old and musty Jack breaks into a coughing fit and wonders if this room has ever _seen_ air in the last millenium. Gadgets and souvenirs and boxes line the shelving and pile up on the bare grating that serves as a floor.

The few bulbs lighting this section of Narnia don't throw light much further than a few feet into the darkness, but Jack can make out another light up ahead. Trailing his fingertips along the shelf for guidance, he follows it deeper in, the dust filthy and sticky over his hand, unnameable objects leaving their imprints on his shins.

He can see them soon enough, the Master perching on an old cushion and the Doctor sitting cross-legged around a yellowed crate functioning as a table. Both of them are so intently focussed on whatever's on top of it they hardly notice him—the Master probably notices everything and chooses to ignore just as much.

'What are you doing?' Jack asks, equal parts stern and confused.

Sighing, the Master answers without looking up, 'Playing _chess_ , Freak.'

Completely bewildered, Jack asks, 'Why?'

 'Because the only other game this idiot can find in here is Scrabble, and he always makes up words.'

The Doctor jerks upright, indignant. 'I do not! Just because my vocabulary is more enlightened than yours—oi! That's my queen!'

'Well, obviously it's mine, now,' says the Master, adding it to a neatly-ordered pile of white pieces.

'I hadn't finished moving,' the Doctor protests, snatching it back.

'You took your hand off it!' the Master retaliates, turning to Jack. 'There's another thing about your noble, heroic Doctor—he's a cheating bastard.'

'I'll leave,' Jack says weakly, not sure if he wants to see them squabbling like...he can't admit it, even to himself.

Game forgotten, the Doctor pulls off his glasses and turns to him with huge eyes. 'No, no, you—you don't have to, you could just…'

'Well,' Jack says, forcing a smile across his face, 'I might just have to see this one for myself.'

'That's my piece,' adds the Master, sourly.

The Doctor hands it over, glowering, shoving a pawn forward one square.

Jack takes a seat on the floor, glad he's not wearing his good trousers. He watches the Master peer down at the board, thick fingers steepled.

Taking a breath, the Master looks back to the Doctor. 'See, this is exactly what I was saying! Once you establish a pecking order, they're much more agreeable.'

The Doctor ignores him, slipping his glasses back on and resting his chin in his palm.

'Oh, alright then, be an old fart,' grumbles the Master, challenging the Doctor's exposed rook.

He's in a good mood, Jack thinks. Which, of course, can only be an incredibly bad thing. He watches warily, plastering a vacant grin over his lips, the Doctor pondering for a moment before he slides another piece into place to protect it.

The game continues, the Master advancing towards the Doctor's king, the Doctor moving whichever piece takes his fancy at any given time. Jack loses interest quickly, trying to distract himself with the objects lining the walls, placing the eras the Doctor plucked them from.

'Aha!' cries the Doctor suddenly, slamming two pieces down at once, 'Checkmate.'

Jack perks his head back up, listening. The Master sighs harshly, rubbing his temples for a frustrated second.

'And _how_ , Doctor?'

The Doctor grins smugly. 'Ulngonian bypass, added as an official rule in sixty-two fourteen by the FIDE.'

'That's preposterous,' scoffs the Master, 'I don't suppose you'd be able to verify that one for me.'

Jack's been to 6214, once, on New Year's Eve. He has no idea of the chess rules but he remembers scamming a good twenty thousand credits off a travelling salesman and smirks to himself; he woke up the next day to an empty bed and all of it missing, anyway.

'It's here somewhere,' mumbles the Doctor, rifling through the contents of an upturned box. 'Really.'

'Forgive me if I don't believe you,' says the Master, curling his lip in distaste at the dust billowing across them. 'Until you can convince me you're not cheating, you could always just play by the rules _we_ learnt.'

The Doctor stops suddenly, his face turning hard and soft all at once. 'Fine.' He puts his pieces back and hovers his hand over the board, settling for moving his bishop two squares away.

Though his expression gives away nothing but supreme boredom, Jack notices the satisfied glint in the Master's eye as he nudges his queen closer to the Doctor's defences. The Doctor doesn't see, too busy watching the pieces with a sombre twist on his lips, and then calmly he shifts his second rook forward one square.

'Check. That's mate,' says the Doctor quietly, as the Master reaches for his king. The Master looks down at the board once, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly, something gently pulling up at the corner of his mouth.

Jack feels infinitely more uncomfortable, an outsider, as the two Time Lords meet eyes for a brief moment, that ancient weight of millennia pressing down on him again.

'You won,' the Master acknowledges, starting to put the pieces back into their little box. There's a peculiar sort of admiration in his tone that is so out of character as to be confronting.  What's worse is the blankness the Doctor has so carefully wove over his features, the conflict Jack can see so clearly in his eyes like he's desperate to say something but can't let himself.

Frozen to the spot, Jack feels unable to say anything, to break this moment that is so beyond him, but he's spared the distress by the Master, who sighs theatrically.

'So, what were the terms? What sordid misadventures do I have to endure, this time?' He gets back to his feet, holding the sleeve of his suit over his mouth and nose to try and filter out the dust cloud.

The Doctor almost immediately perks up. 'Oh, come on, you'll love it! Voted best space memorial of the nine greater galaxies five times running!'

Suddenly alert, Jack stands too, blocking the way out. 'We're going on a trip?'

'No, no,' waves the Master, 'He still thinks I'm going to start eating small children. No, we're going to fly past it from a safe distance and look through the windows—breathtaking.'

'Sounds like fun,' Jack says, stepping back, watching the Doctor carefully.

'Not you too,' the Doctor frowns, deflating, 'Jack? Don't you want to come?'

 _No_ , thinks Jack, but he nods and follows them out.

***

They've been flying for hours. The usual banter has long since died out and been replaced by the incessant tap of the Master's fingers against the rail, which clashes painfully with the throb of Jack's head. Any second now it's all going to go catastrophically wrong, and that it hasn't yet only means it's going to be worse when it does.

The Doctor is bored, but perversely content, despite the Master's best attempts at annoying him. Jack spends a while trying to figure out how he can describe it because it's just so _alien_ to see the Doctor happy; not manic or babbling or excited.

Not for the first time, he wonders if the Doctor even realises anymore, whether he's been denying it so long he can't tell that it isn't _real_. He gazes serenely over the Master and Jack like he's their guardian angel, and maybe he really believes that.

Maybe he really believes this is where Jack wants to be, watching as he loses a man he loves ( _used to_ ) to his worst enemy, and maybe he thinks the Master is happy here, caged like an animal, and he thinks all of it makes him happy when Jack's never seen him so _broken_.

Or perhaps it's not the lie but the truth that breaks him. Over and over.

Jack feels sick the longer he thinks about it and his head just _pounds_ and he's going to crack in about two seconds if somebody doesn't _do something_.

The noise stops.

'Want anything, Doctor?' the Master says, hoisting himself to his feet. 'I need a drink just watching your piloting. I'll bring a bowl for the Freak.' He leaves without waiting for a reply.

Jack shoves it all aside, before the silence falls in on them. 'So, Doctor. Is there really an Ulngonian bypass?'

Looking genuinely pleased, the Doctor gently rubs the back of his neck. 'Well, no. But that's the thing about him, he's always cared more about beating me than winning.'

'Glad I've never tried to verse you at chess, that's for sure,' Jack says, but all he can think of is the way the Doctor broke inside the Master's head as he died and _forced_ him back to life.

'Which is why he always loses, in the end,' the Doctor muses, and then as if he remembers Jack's actually still there, he adds, 'I'm sure there are plenty of games you're better at than I am.'

'Strip poker?' Jack says, but his heart isn't in it; it twists inside him as he says it.

'I told you,' floats the Master's voice, Jack whirling to spot him against the doorframe while the Doctor's back just goes rigid. 'Dirty cheat. Why do you think he wears so many ridiculous clothes in the first place?'

Jack feels his heart start to beat out of his chest as the Master saunters past him, nursing two mugs. He can smell the whisky from where he's standing. The Master sets the Union Jack mug down for himself and hands the Doctor the Beatles one, Jack feeling a sudden affection towards the TARDIS and her apparent sense of humour.

The Doctor stares at the dark, steaming brew inside his, eyeing it cautiously.

'It's...a health drink,' the Master explains, not even bothering to hide the caricature in his smile.

At first the Doctor presses his lips together grimly, but then the Master gives a half-chuckle and his eyes soften as he pores deeply into the bottom of the mug, like his answers are hiding beneath the liquid. He raises it to his lips, drinking deeply, and then he tips it and drains it in one go. His eyes don't leave the Master's.

'Here,' the Master says, as if he hasn't taken any note of the spectacle, 'You're navigating in completely the wrong era, none of your landmarks even have centres of gravity yet. Go future-wards seven megaannums.'

Looking sheepish, the Doctor nudges a dial and resets a few different controls. Jack feels the floor shift beneath him and they're being _pulled_ somewhere, now, a gentle gradient under his feet. 'Oh. We're here.'

Jack stays put, crossing his arms. He has no great desire to open a door and look outside and be pushed into deep space for a practical joke. The Master is equally uninterested, and it's the Doctor that sets his mug down and strides across to unlatch the doors.

'The Temple of Astrya,' the Doctor says, his eyes transfixed on a blue orb some distance away. 'Come on, don't look so worried. The TARDIS's extended the atmospheric shield for us, unless you somehow manage to fall explosively forwards, you'll be fine.'

With a sly grin directed at Jack, the Master glides up beside the Doctor, reaching an arm possessively around his shoulders. 'Oooh, Doctor, I see what you meant. It's very sparkly.'

He hates this, and he walks to the Doctor's opposite side anyway. 'What's it for?'

The Doctor stares, transfixed. 'It's...nobody knows. The Astryans built this memorial so their dead would never be forgotten, and then they disappeared a thousand years later, and nobody remembers why.'

The Master snorts a little. 'The Temple of Irony, more like. If this mood light is really enough to impress you, Doctor, I'd say you need to try blowing up a planet once or twice, but—'

'Let me change the settings on the shielding,' the Doctor interrupts, a little too loud and too harsh. He shifts to the console and taps a couple of controls, waiting a few moments and tapping again, until he finds whatever combination he's after.

The Master's posture seems to stiffen suddenly. 'How very tacky.'

The Doctor takes up his place between them again, staring solemnly out to the dancing lights of the temple, the ethereal glow of its surface. 'Those used to be people, Master.'

'What used to be people?' Jack asks, squinting at the blue sphere, wondering what exactly he's missed.

'Those aren't people,' the Master says, 'They're a cheap tourist attraction to make hypocrites like you think they're superior to everybody else because oh, the poor Astryans, look how much I _care_.'

'They're not a tourist attraction to me,' says the Doctor, the words bitten off, refusing to look away.

'Oh no,' agrees the Master, 'Better yet, they're a way to make you feel better because you only _wish_ you could remember all the people you've killed.'

'Stop it,' the Doctor says, turning to Jack instead, 'It's made from psychic energy. Here, if you'll let me just…'

 _No_ , Jack wants to say, but then the Doctor's cool fingertips are resting against his temples, his consciousness a gentle, warm nudge, prickling at the edges, and Jack just lets him in.

At first Jack is overwhelmed by the _multitude_ of thoughts that batter down his synapses, _thoughtsfeelingshopesdreamswishes_ with a thousand voices in languages he doesn't recognise, images he can't make sense of, until he realises they're pulsing out of the temple, through the conduit of the Doctor's mind into his own and smothering him in souls. He recalls some of his training, orders his thoughts and tries to _push_ back against the onslaught, and then—he sees something, deeper and darker and emptier hiding behind the rumble of voices. Jack chases it, the string unravelling and thinning out to a thread, but he grips its fraying ends and hauls himself closer until he claws his way out of the noise and then falls, all at once, into the void.

It happens so fast, the darkness and the pain and neverending, rejection and heartache and so much guilt bearing down heavy and crushing  him, deeper into the dark where he drowns and suffocates in his own abandonment, the Master's violence and calculated cruelty—it scours and gouges away at this place, rips open great wounds Jack falls down through, to the raw flesh beneath that Jack can only call hope. The pain is like fire and cleansing and in the ashes it leaves of him is forgiveness and worthiness and love, the hope of it, and while there's pain there's a chance it can make him better—

Jack gasps a breath, reeling at the walls of his mind until he recognises himself, and air and his heart is beating so fast he can't see.

'Funny that you sit there and say that, Doctor,' the Master says, lip curling at them both, 'when at least I'm not the one pretending I'm better than the person that did this.'

The Doctor turns on him then, with a darkness Jack wishes he'd never seen in him, his voice quiet and sad and dangerous. 'I know this isn't you, Master. It's the drums that are making you like this and you have to let me _help_.'

'How dare you, Doctor,' growls the Master, standing his ground, 'Your _help_? You absolute hypocrite.'

'Jack,' the Doctor pleads, fixing that desperation back on him. The frozen, awkward observer role ripped from him, action thrust into his hands, he still has no idea what to do because this isn't the Doctor he believes in or the man that Doctor would want to become. This is a kind of wrong Jack's supposed to commit, to save him from.

The Master is too haughty to acknowledge him, to even look at him, the venom focussed to needle-point on the Doctor instead. 'Watch, Doctor, even your loyal pet isn't going to side with you this time. What sort of good samaritan do you think that makes you, exactly?'

That settles it. The last wisps of the Doctor's thoughts and emotions still fizzing beneath his conscious mind, the empathy is clear and powerful and he holds the Doctor's gaze strongly at last.

Reassurance anchoring the contact, Jack says firmly, 'I'm with you. What do we do?'

Jack can _almost_ see the Master's composure slip.

'Is this how it's going to be, then?' he says, after a moment's recalculation, 'A few home truths too evil for your precious morals but lobotomising prisoners is fair game?'

The first stirrings of guilt are rising back up from Jack's chest but it's worth it, to see him almost scared, the hesitant fondness over the Doctor's features.

'It's alright, Jack,' The Doctor nods, looking down at the Master solemnly, 'I just have to do it.' He steps closer, the Master meeting his eyes with cool steel until the Doctor is close enough to reach out and rest one hand against his temple, the tension almost flickering between them, the Master not even blinking.

If he really wanted to stop him, he'd lash out, Jack convinces himself. So why doesn't he?

The Doctor closes his eyes, concentrating hard, and the Master's breath slips as if he's in pain. Jack watches, ready to intervene at a moment's notice and still frozen because _now_ is the moment when he needs to do something, and he doesn't.

The Doctor gasps, hard, flinching back as if he'd been struck, the Master's eyes nothing but ice.

'Quite done?' he says, voice deceptively smooth. He spares a final glare at the Astryan memorial, slides his mug off the console, and leaves.

The Doctor shudders, once, and then starts shivering uncontrollably, steadying himself the whole way to the seats where he collapses. Jack is at his side instantly, the doors wide open and forgotten.

'What is it?' he demands, though unable to keep the distress out of his voice. 'Doctor!'

'It's fine,' the Doctor protests, weakly, closing his eyes against whatever he's fighting. He takes a couple of shaky breaths. 'Just...just give me a minute.'

Jack does, feeling the shock creep in on him, the _what have I done_ he's not even sure why he feels. He hesitates. 'Are you okay…?'

Forcing his eyes back open with what seems a monumental effort, he nods. 'Yep. I'm...yep. Fine. Never was as good as him at that.'

Jack's heart is racing. 'Did...did you find anything?'

'Not really, no,' the Doctor says, too flippant. His voice, at least, has regained some of its control.

He isn't sure what he feels. Confident that the Doctor isn't about to die, he gets back up, paces to the doors and closes them, happy to leave this place behind. The silence behind the Doctor's ragged breath unsettles him with its gravity and though he's come out with everything he wanted from this, he feels like he's lost some vital battle. Perhaps some part of himself, too.

'Jack? I think…' the Doctor starts, looking up at him as if for permission to continue.

'Yeah?' Jack prods, 'You can tell me.' He wonders if he dares get his hopes up.

'I really think he's getting better.'  The Doctor's lips quirk upwards at the thought, but all Jack can think is _no, not this again_.

The weight sinks inside him, heavier still. 'Well, you tell me.'

Talkative and almost excited, the Doctor doesn't hesitate now. 'I don't know, it's just—I know he has bad days, because everybody has bad days, but he almost let me this time and he’s really getting along with you, now! It's better. I'm sure it's better.'

'I'm not so sure, Doctor. I don't think you can trust him at face value like that,' Jack says, but his brain is on autopilot, his self somewhere cold and remote at the bottom of the pit in his stomach.

'And,' the Doctor says, 'We talk. More than we've ever talked, since...a very long time. I think he's changing, being here is helping him.' His expression suddenly fades to that deep guilt he wears so often. 'It's...it's really my fault. So many times he offered me to be with him, and…'

'It's alright, we're going to get through it now. Can't change the past,' Jack replies. Like reading off a script. There are so many things he wants to say, wished the Doctor would give him the chance to say, but he doesn't have the heart for it now.

He should be glad for the warmth across the Doctor's face, the guard he's let down.

He's not, and the Doctor gingerly gets to his feet, offering Jack an almost-smile. 'I think what I really need right now is a good cup of tea. You know, nothing beats eighteenth century British tea, except some of those tea planets but they're a few ten thousand years outside your time. There's really no point even travelling in time if you don't try some _sometime_.'

'I'm good, thanks,' Jack says, 'Think I'm going to take a shower. See you round?'

The Doctor deflates a little. 'Course, see you soon.'

And this time, Jack is the one that chooses to leave, the pit sinking and sinking.

***

He's tempted to collapse into bed, fall asleep and restart the day and figure out where it had all gone so wrong. Time doesn't seem to pass here and the thoughts buzz in his head, the fragments of conversation stuck over and over, so that no matter how listless he feels he doesn't think he'll ever make it to tired.

Bed still seems like the best option. Jack trudges the now-familiar paths to his room, usually one of five or so patterns the TARDIS changes at will. He's sure with a bit of time to collect his thoughts he can shake this, like everything else, put it back in its place.

He sighs as he throws open the door, all the sights and smells of home that's still missing the one thing he misses most—and his heart almost skips a beat when he sees the figure reclining on the bed.

'Hello, Freak.'

 

 

 


	6. II: Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Sorry it's been so long for an update, apparently study is a thing that exists, but rest assured this story has not been abandoned. Or well, this story refuses to abandon my head. Thank you all for sticking with this crazy brainchild...hopefully this chapter will satisfy. I'm sure if you've made it this far you already know if this fic is for you or not, but warnings once again will apply :) Enjoy!

Jack's heart pounds so suddenly his vision spins. 'Get out. Just get out.'

The Master ignores him, a lazy grin sliding across his face. His suit jacket is discarded somewhere, shirt straining over the outline of his chest as he stretches back, arms folded behind his head. He inhales deeply, with one of those faux smiles; Jack isn't worth acting for. 'Ianto Jones.'

Something far harder, far colder pierces Jack's insides. Everything goes silent and sharp. 'What have you done with him?'

One of the Master's legs slips open, his eyes almost-shut as he basks like a cat. He takes his time, lets the words rumble in his throat. Like he knows what it does. Like Jack's forgotten he's had years to know just how to break him. 'Humans—you all stink. Every single last one of you, like animals festering in your own waste. Not something you forget so easily.'

'Where is he,' Jack says.

'Oh, he's fine,' says the Master. 'It never happened, after all.'

Jack's hand goes to his pistol. It would be easy. It would be so easy. 'Bullshit. Tell me.'

'Now, why would I want to do that?' the Master points out pleasantly. He wrinkles his nose. 'Death smelt much better on him.'

'Because I'll tell the Doctor everything. Everything you're up to,' Jack snarls.

He gives Jack an expression of supreme boredom. 'And pray tell, exactly, what that might be? I imagine if he still wanted to suck my cock after I drove his favourite species to extinction, he wouldn't change his mind just because we had a little chat.'

Jack just glares, processing this, wishing he could just shoot him if it wasn't _true_.

The Master's eyes fixate on him with a predatory hunger. He knows he has him cornered. 'Go on, then. Ask me _nicely_.'

All of Jack's old demons come back to haunt him, those words he always told himself. _It never happened_. And now he hears it from the man himself, they lose any last power they had over him.

The nightmares win.

'Please, Master,' Jack says quietly, the words enough to bring the sick feeling back in his stomach, phantom pain jolting down his nerves, the despair of it. 'Tell me what happened.'

The tableaux falls away entirely, leaving nothing but the Master's gaze, laser-sharp, the tension that sings between them.

'I think you can do better.'

Jack recoils from the words, a part of him snapping that tells him he doesn't have to do this, that disgusts him with himself. He turns to leave.

Then something dark slithers across his thoughts, something warm and sweet and empty, and he stops. The Master looks over him with benevolence, expectance. He feels compelled; he lowers his eyes. ' _Master_.'

'Good boy,' chuckles the Master, and the affection feels as genuine as the derision.

Jack listens patiently, not trusting himself to open his mouth again. He feels lost.

'You know, I almost thought I was too late. He was the only one of your pathetic girl scouts left, hiding in the mountains,' the Master reminisces fondly. His eyes don't leave Jack, that hawklike surveillance. 'I'm sure you were quite the match. Just as stubborn as you are, didn't take any notice of what I was saying until I showed him that vortex manipulator you're so fond of.'

Jack bites his tongue. He wants to—no, he doesn't want to hear this. But he has to.

'I,' the Master begins, his head tilting forwards ever so slightly to better observe Jack's reaction, 'have never seen anybody so _desperate_ for what I had to give them. How very badly he wanted to trust me.'

Jack fights to give him none.

Raising his eyebrows, the Master rests back against the wall. 'And how easy it was to get him to fuck me.'

'You're lying,' Jack spits, the anger bursting bright and clear through his mind.

'No,' the Master smiles, 'I'm not.'

And the warm and the dark rear up, out from the back of his thoughts. They slice through his vision, his senses, a hot knife through butter -

He's watching Ianto gasp, the heat of his breath condensing in the cold, the snow. The grimace on his face vividly highlights the mar of frostbite, the flush of exertion over purpled cheeks as he lowers himself, muscles taut, onto the ache of arousal beneath him. And yes, there is some beauty in that, in the poetry of it; he thinks this is his salvation, his lifeline, when it's his erasure. His need pours off him, cloying and pitiful as he moans, sinks down over the first few inches and he hisses out loud. It's burning hot and tight, so tight he could almost imagine them nothing but children, and above him Ianto grits his teeth and wails and tries to take him deeper still. He shivers and scrabbles at his hips and it's right there; his entire being stripped bare and vulnerable, reaching out blindly into the darkness with his suffering rendered an offering. And the power of so much desperation, so freely given, is dizzying.

The darkness reaches back. It shoots him casually, indiscriminately, his blood staining the snow in a pattern so random and yet artistically precise it is as if he was born to die there. It's at once fantasy and fact as it's realised from his mind to his senses.

And it's that image that Jack is left with when the hatred and pain prick back through his consciousness. Back to too-sharp thought and grief that overwhelm him in floods, shredding the last of whatever it was still left.

His eyes open to the image of the Master, eyeing him coldly as if this is a test he's about to either pass or fail. Jack has no care for his tests; for victories or defeats. He leaves and doesn't spare him a second glance.

 

He walks, his thoughts namelessly blurry and conflicting emotion churning through his chest like so much pulp. Jack lets the TARDIS take him on a meandering path through her corridors, dimly lit for the Gallifreyan night. He has no interest in her doors, her many rooms, grateful just to be alone and his wish to run away from  it all indulged for a short while.

Apparently, the TARDIS has other ideas. She leads him over and over, no matter what path he takes, to a large vaulted archway whose door is wooden and ornate, its handle a tarnished brass and archivolt carved in the twining branches of a tree. He avoids it fervently until he finds himself having to backtrack past it for the seventh time and gives up trying to fight her.

The door slides open easily, its heaviness deceptive, and reveals a huge hall more appropriate in a cathedral than a time machine; great vaulted gothic ceilings and marble blocks. He realises from the books lining the walls floor-to-ceiling that this must be the library. It's beautiful; he's never seen its equal. He walks to the end of the hall, where it opens into a multi-storeyed atrium, picks a direction and keeps going.

He tries not to think about it. Nothing has changed.

The walls are richly tapestried in regal crimsons and violets, gold thread glinting in the light. It's so unlike any of the Doctors Jack has known, this palatial expanse of mahogany and stained glass. He wonders what the Doctor's homeworld must have been like to be the architect of an almost spiritual shrine to knowledge.

Feeling reckless, he walks up to a shelf at random and runs his fingers over the leather-bound spines of the books. They're not organized by any system he can fathom. Jack picks something more contemporary; a lightweight aluflex volume, so out of place in the leather and vellum. Inset in its coverlet are a selection of five cartridges and he picks the cleanest-looking one to slot into the reader, and the book blinks to life as if it were real paper.

 

> **_From Silicone to Stone: A resource for transtemporal compatibility_ **
> 
> _Undoubtedly, temporal engineering is the greatest achievement of humankind. It sets the human race apart among even its most advanced fellows through the cosmos, completing a voyage of scientific ingenuity and discovery begun in 1969 when our ancestors took the first steps to explore the Universe. Since the landmark demonopolisation  on temporal patents in 4623, and the widespread commercial adoption of these technologies, the importance of the temporal frontier to business is unquantifiable._
> 
> _The extension of markets into the diversity of environments afforded by intertemporal business models inherently presents a multitude of challenges, both cultural and technical. Fortunately, many of these barriers once considered insurmountable are now possible to overcome, owing in large part to the ubiquitisation of affordable "smart" self-replicating technologies and autoprototyping. Sensitive systematic engineering as a model was first put forward by Erkheel Bezarus in his 4878 treatise on contemporary approaches to intertemporal coherence and has been developed over the past century as the technology to accommodate its integration has been developed…_

Jack flicks the screen a few times.

 

> _…a fundamental comprehension of the principles of xenobiology is the necessary basis for many compatibility systems. While many xenoorganisms have been shown to utilise a similar carbon-based life pattern,  the atmospheric conditions of each system have the primary influence on the dominant elemental conditions of life and can be consequently predicted, and are available via small-scale modelling units. Understanding of the primary modes of communication, locomotion and sensory capacity are the first focus of compatibility and may require extensive interface overhaul. It is important at this stage to keep in mind Bezarus's Laws on the universality of function to allow focussed and directed modification…_

The other cartridges contain similar reference books and he slips them back inside the cover, and the book back on the shelf. A couple of the books are inscribed in the geometric symbols of the Doctor's language and he thumbs through them, too, puzzling over the peculiar bubbled appearance of the small print and the few pages where it's organised into mosaics of words like Arabic calligraphy.

His route takes him deeper into the library until he's thoroughly lost, unsure if he's walking around in circles, or if the TARDIS keeps changing the layout, or if the library is really this vast. He hardly minds, browsing hall after hall, immensely grateful for the simple solitude of it. He tries to take some interest in the little rooms he finds, like cellars, dark and earthy as if they've been carved out from the richly-stained wood that forms their walls. In these the collection varies, not only books, but artefacts and bottles.

Jack doesn't stop wandering until one of the halls opens to a  reading room, a fireplace blooming to life as he enters. The titles here are more colourful, more Doctorish, the couches old and comfortable and worn and the usual paraphernalia he associates with him dotting the shelves and coffee tables. He scans a shelf, running his fingertips over the entire _Harry Potter_ series, a few scattered _Hercule Poirot_ stories and a novelisation of _The Empire Strikes Back_. He settles on the latter and slides it off the shelf, landing heavily on a worn velvet armchair.

Jack thumbs through the book absently, pausing for a moment on the illustrations. He gazes at the leaping flames, the ephemeral flickers of light ghosting around the logs, until the afterimages blur his vision and his eyes water from the heat.

His mind drifts into memories; earlier, easier ones, when it had been just them and Gwen, Tosh and Owen. When everything was new and a little simpler, a little more terrifying; the glances in the office, the coffee on his desk in the morning, the kisses they pretended everyone hadn't seen. They flit in and out like insects, until his wrist strap beeps and he's abruptly aware of how long he's spent just staring.

It's Ianto. He looks at the notification for a long time, his eyes tracing the blue lines of the icon, his finger hovering over it, but he can't do it.

What would he even say? _In an alternate timeline that never existed you betrayed me, and now I can't trust a word you say?_ Except, it happened, because he still remembers every last excruciating moment of it, he still can't sleep without reliving it—he can't walk ten feet without running into it.

And he knows it's not his fault, he knows this Ianto hasn't ever—but he would. There's nothing in that message that isn't already hollowed out by that knowledge.

Jack sighs and lays his head back on the chair, gazing up to the chandeliers above. The ceiling is patterned with Gallifreyan designs, carved into brass and mounted. Small oil lanterns line the eaves, pulsing glows of muted light that match the ebb of the flames in the fireplace, like a heartbeat. He sits for a long time, the logs dying down to glowing embers.

 

***

 

Jack wakes to darkness, the last points of light in the fireplace the only illumination in the room. He's aware of a gnawing pit in his stomach and the soft creak of the wooden shelves around him. He supposes it must still be night, whatever kind of night the Doctor grew up with, dreamt and rested and gazed at the stars in. When he sits up, he realises he can hear the background hum of voices.

Carefully, Jack gets to his feet, padding as quietly as possible to the doorway. He rubs his eyes, trying to make out the source of the sound, huddling his coat around himself. The echoes make it difficult to follow and the gentle reverberations are lulling, keeping him from chasing the last of the sleep out of his mind.

Blearily, he follows them, the library ethereal and forbidden in the darkness. The halls become more regal, more fantastic; the faint glows of stellar maps turning the ceiling into a cloud of light, glinting gold and brass outlining eaves and columns. The rugs beneath his feet give way to polished marble black as space and Jack treads even more carefully, so as not to let his footfalls reverberate. The voices are whispered, hushed.

Either his eyes have adjusted or light is coming from somewhere, the shadows growing shallower and his own reflection now visible beneath his feet. Jack hugs the wall as the hall curves around, poking his head around to see.

The source of the light is readily visible; ahead is a huge atrium, the walls completely foregone for immense, floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the stars and galaxies as the TARDIS drifts through them. To the left, an antechamber houses an enormous telescope, whether Time Lord contemporary or antique, Jack can't place. And in the middle of the observatory, quite out of place amid the complex maps and symbols etched into the marble floor, are an assortment of beanbags and sofas.

In front of them, the Doctor and the Master sit, watching the Universe drift by.

The Doctor is huddled, his knees drawn up to his chest, while the Master leans back on his hands with his legs splayed like a boy, and Jack can perfectly envision the calculated boredom he holds his features in. He doesn't know how close he dares to get, edging his way into the shadow of a bookcase and trying to make out their voices.

 

_'...I couldn't save them, but maybe there's still hope for you.'_

_'I would have done the same thing, you know. Miserable old tossers.'_

_'And they were our friends and our family.'_

_'Funny that you never seemed to care about any of that when they were still alive.'_

 

There's a long, painful pause.

 

 _'I did._ '

 _'Do you remember when we were children? All those dreams, guarding over the universe side-by-side—_ power _, Doctor. It's power that gives you the means to protect.'_

_'I never wanted any part in it, in...in this.'_

_'And yet here we are, and only one of us has destroyed their entire race. But think of how much you've shaped, how much you've saved. So much of time only exists because of what you did.'_

_'Please, Master. The only thing that matters is that it's just you and me; please.'_

_'It was what I always wanted for you, did you know? To see for yourself how much you could do. What you could achieve.'_

 

The Doctor shakes his head, and the room stays quiet for a moment.

_'I can't lose you, too, I--you have to let me try.'_

_'You don't think you're a little late?'_

 

The Doctor's head lifts off his folded arms, fixing the other Time Lord with an expression Jack can only guess at in the dim of the starlight. He shifts around, just the tip of his thumb hesitating before it makes contact with the Master's cheek, the long fingers splayed in a timid caress.

There's a sigh shared between them; reluctant acceptance in the Master, and something like relief in the long exhale the Doctor lets out. They don't move at all.

Jack is almost beyond mortification, now.

When whatever it is is over, the Master lifts an arm and gestures, the Doctor scooting over to rest peacefully against his side, the Doctor's lanky torso almost comically curled to nestle beside him. They sit, staring out into space. At first, when he hears them speaking softly to each other, he thinks their voices are too soft to make out. Then, Jack realises, they're not speaking English at all.

He can see everything that's wrong here. The way the Doctor is tense, flinching under the tight curl of fingertips around his hip, digging into his side. The cruel grin twisted on the Master's lips as they linger over the tufts of his hair.

And just the same, suddenly he knows he can never be what the Doctor needs.

 

***

 

  


  


>   
>  _Dear Sir,_
> 
> _Owen passed out drunk in the hub again, and we found his hooker trapped in one of the holding cells next to a weevil. Gwen had a fit and I resisted taking the stapler to his prick because I thought you might be jealous if you couldn't watch._
> 
> _Tosh has decided she wants a cat and unfortunately left it here overnight. Apparently Torchwood training does not cover rabid felines - how do you keep the sharp bits away, by the way?_
> 
> _On that note, any tips on cleaning vomit out of your chair upholstery might be useful, too._
> 
> _Hoping tomorrow treats you better (and it probably will once you've had more than five hours sleep, you know),_
> 
> _Your Ianto_
> 
> _P.S. Cheer up, Sir, whatever things are like with them, you can be assured it's not as bad as taking care of this lot._

> _Dear Ianto,_
> 
> _Owen never fails to surprise me. You got to say, at least he keeps things interesting. Sounds like I have nothing to complain about, are you still okay babysitting the kids? Are they asking questions? I don't even know how long it's been in here._
> 
> _I think I might be coming home soon. I feel like there's not much left I can do here, there doesn't seem much point. And I need to talk to you, about what happened when I was gone._
> 
> _Miss you,_
> 
> _Jack_
> 
> _P.S. Feed it things and let it sit in your lap_

Jack stares into the depths of another cup of coffee; the TARDIS's brew is improving. He has to wonder if with the Doctor's preference to tea, she's just out of practice. He nibbles on a corner of toast, his throat dry and raw, the taste lost to the scrape of the crumbs against his tongue. His stomach rumbles in protest. Not for the first time, Jack questions why he even bothers, it's not like he's ever going to starve to death.

The kitchen is quiet, in what feels like the small hours of the morning. The TARDIS's lighting is beginning to glow brighter, in that funny way Jack's come to expect of fluorescent office strip lights - glaring and cold. It isn't really so different to those days; decades waiting and wasting away, pushing paper for the Torchwood higher-ups.

He chews his way through two slices of toast, leaving his plate and mug on the sink. The corridors are still chilly as he wanders, his footsteps echoing in the near-silence. The TARDIS helpfully guides him away from the console room, through some of the more haphazard passages, Jack finally settling in a large Roman-style bath. As he enters, the pools and tubs fill before his eyes with water that materialises like the TARDIS herself.

Jack grazes the door jamb with his fingers fondly, the room hazy with fresh steam. He idly dips his fingers in the surface of the nearest pool. When he does bathe, he settles on a shower inset into a corner near the back of the room, turning the water as hot as it goes and letting it batter down onto his skull. The jets are firm, smarting on his cold skin, the thud of the water filling his ears and chasing out the anxious thud of his own heartbeat.

He finds another garden, a smaller one, this one more like a Victorian greenhouse than the artificial meadows and skies he's seen here. It's no bigger than a courtyard, housing roses and other familiar Earth flowers along with plants he can't name, and the Doctor either keeps or has forgotten about bunnies, raggedy things that inch closer to him curiously. A skylight lets in nothing but the faint sparkle of stars, light lost to the infinite black of space.

Jack sits for a long time.

The path in the garden leads to a small set of shrubs and eventually a finely-meshed cage in an alcove, buzzing with butterflies and exotic insects. Jack begins to wonder whether these are more ornaments, created by the infinite potential of the TARDIS's interior, or a collection. He pokes just the tips of his fingers into the mesh, watching to see if one will land on him to feel.

The overhead lighting cycles; brighter and warmer, the shadows lengthening and angling around as the day grows longer. Jack realises he's tired, and though he checks the Earth time on his wrist strap, he has no idea how it relates to the day and night cycles here.

His head snaps round, his hands clenched before he even registers the slam of the door, the noise ringing unbearably loudly in his head after so much quiet. It's only the Doctor, of course it's the Doctor, dragging his hand through his hair and his eyes darting around the garden until he spots Jack and grins.

Jack takes a last look at the butterflies before he steps out of the shade and greets him. There's a brief, barely-felt silence, where Jack realises he's supposed to start the conversation on the front foot.

'There you are,' says the Doctor, smiling over him like a parent. 'I've been looking for you all day, I was starting to think you'd gotten lost.'

Jack smiles back, in turn. 'I think I was trying to, but she hasn't let me yet.'

'I wanted to talk to you about something,' the Doctor says, his words too certain and sure for him to really want to communicate.

'Shoot.' Jack steps over to a wooden bench and gestures beside him.

The Doctor stays standing. 'I think it's time to take him outside.'

'What? You're joking, right?' Jack splutters, the words tumbling out before he has a chance to think. 'After everything he's just done?'

'He hasn't done anything,' the Doctor says, furrowing his brow and looking to the skylight, 'It's all been my fault.'

Jack gapes at him. 'Yesterday, you saw him, he...you can't seriously think you can trust him, he practically attacked you.'

'I attacked him, Jack. And I saw what was in his head, and he isn't going to hurt anybody.' The Doctor smiles down at him, waiting for something; approval or gratitude or what, Jack can't tell.

'He...he's just doing it to trick you, to make you trust him, so it'll hurt you more when he betrays you.' Jack racks his brain frantically, flitting through the events, trying to find anything that might stick. He can't seem to think of anything past the curl of the Doctor's spine against the Master's side, the way the Doctor laughed when he was...when he saw it.

'He won't,' says the Doctor, adamant. His lip slips under his teeth. 'This time, I'm sure. We...he understands now.'

Jack clamps down hard on the rising panic, the anger. He sighs, drawing another breath, and thinks hard. He tries not to stare directly at the Doctor, the expectancy on his face, the look in his eyes.

'Please,' says the Doctor. He looks like he's about to say something else, to make an excuse, but Jack knows what he means and it's too late to take it back.

He loves him, Jack realises. He still loves this man, whatever's left of him. And the Doctor needs this.

Jack takes another breath. 'Okay. Okay, we'll do it.'

The Doctor's face splits into a grin, a real grin. 'We will, don't you worry, Jack. I've already thought, we'll go somewhere safe, somewhere without any time travel technology.'

'Considering how much havoc he could wreak with just twenty-first century technology…' Jack hesitates, shrugging.

'Mmm, and twentieth,' the Doctor reminisces, with that strange admiring smile Jack recognises off the Master's features. 'We'll go somewhere stone-age, there's lots of great places in the Orecon galaxy, I haven't visited there in centuries.'

The Master could probably bring about genocide with a paperclip and some lemon juice, but Jack keeps quiet. 'Isn't there something we could do to keep track of him? A shock collar, or something?' He doesn't add that trouble seems to follow the Doctor like a plague, no matter how safe or peaceful he thinks it's going to be.

'No,' says the Doctor. 'Only if it's necessary.'

Jack supposes that means he thinks it _isn't_ necessary. 'When are we going?'

'Tomorrow,' says the Doctor, 'I came to tell you to pack your coat. Or, whatever it is you need to do before we arrive.'

'What?' Jack starts, 'Tomorrow, are you serious?' But the Doctor is already leaving, that wild grin Jack missed so much back on his face, the thrill of adventure putting a bound in his step.

Jack stares blankly where the Doctor was standing. He gives up on the idea of chasing after him and sits, holding his head in his hands. He doesn't know the first place to start to fix this.

 

***

 

> _Dear Ianto,_
> 
> _We're going on a trip somewhere tomorrow. He promised it'd be somewhere low-tech so I don't know if I can get a message through. I don't know how long we'll be there for but let's just say I've got a bad feeling about this. Just wanted to let you know._
> 
> _Take care,_
> 
> _Jack_

Jack lays in his bed, crisp and clean like nothing had ever happened, with all the sterility of a hotel room. He's exhausted, he knows, putting off sleep to find some way to fix things when sleep is probably a solution in and of itself.

He wishes he could pinpoint the moment when he let everything get so out of hand. Somewhere, with the Doctor, his life turned into one endless nightmare that he hasn't woken up from since the second he heard the TARDIS above the Hub; it hasn't ended, it isn't better, it's only worse.

When he turns off the lights, the feeling of sleep comes easily. There's a certainty, at least, in the inevitability of the disasters that wait tomorrow that's been lacking his whole time here, that feeling of dread finally sated.

 

***

 

_Ianto breathes a laugh against the fastening of his trousers, his nose resting against Jack's open belt._

_'Ianto,' Jack chides, but he pulls him closer, threading his fingers through strands of his hair._

_Ianto's eyes tear away from his and attend to his clothes, gentle fingers icy-cold with the night sliding the trousers down his thighs, his knees, ghosting over his skin. Jack leans down to kiss him, cradling his face and relishing the softness of his lips, the warmth of his mouth._

_Jack's hands weave down, slipping the buttons of Ianto's waistcoat free, inching their way between waistband and skin. Ianto gasps sharply at the touch, his smile open and playful, pulling Jack's hand away and pinning his wrist to the edge of the desk with one of those looks Jack would never have expected from him, his Ianto. Sly, Ianto drops to his knees, mouthing his erection through the thin layer of his pants and Jack moaning, laughing with how good it feels and the knowledge that Owen is working late two doors away._

_The air chills the wetness of Ianto's mouth and he shivers, his skin prickling with goosebumps, supressing his groan when Ianto pulls free and kisses his chest._

_'That's freezing,' Jack says, somewhere between annoyance and amusement, and Ianto responds only by leaning up and kissing him again. The kiss is frenzied, consuming, not the biting dominance they sometimes prefer or the soft press of lips before they fall asleep, but the open-mouthed eagerness of lust._

_Jack can't breathe, he realises, and kisses harder. Ianto's eyes bore into him, sparkling and dancing._

_He can't breathe._

He jerks awake to darkness and a pressure on his mouth, over his chest, his limbs paralysed with weight. A terrible, cruel voice hisses over his ear. 'I don't think you should move.'

Jack tries to breathe through his nose, his heart so loud over the ringing in his ears he can barely make out the rustle of fabric, the shift of weight.

He can feel the ice of a blade pressed against his thigh, the chill of air over exposed skin.

'Now,' says the voice, too pleasant, and the knife slips higher to the arteries in his groin, 'I know it's been a while, but you can't have forgotten how this one goes.'

Jack yells on instinct, thrashing out, but the hand over his mouth squeezes harder with a grip that feels like it's about to snap his jaw, the knee levered against his chest pressing more weight than Jack has strength.

The knife slides over his skin, the singing of the edge over his hair klaxon-loud in the night, the softness of two sets of breath. There's a quiet chuckle of air, not voice. Jack feels a sharp line pressing between his legs, the sensation so precise he can feel every nick in the edge, every grain of metal.

His eyes have adjusted enough he can see an outline of a figure, a shift of muscles stretched into a grin.

'It won't kill you, will it?' breathes the voice, thick with excitement. 'We've already tried. Oh, but Jack, I wonder if you'd finish the job for me, if you'd rather die than live without it.'

Jack's breathing speeds up, harsh through the thin passages of his nose.

He can hear the smile, the click of teeth. 'Tell me, Freak. Tell me the truth. You can't lie to me.'

The fingers release his mouth, trailing over his lips, his jaw, as if he's something beautiful, but Jack only gasps in hard breaths, trying to think, trying to move. His limbs are bound to something, he can't see.

He howls, a line of flaring pain drawing across his hip, a barely-felt wetness across his skin. The scream is aborted, dammed up in his throat, _it's okay_ , he tells himself, _just think._

'Don't belittle yourself to carrots and sticks.' The knife slides back against his shaft, pressing threateningly. No more warnings.

'I would,' he rasps, past the pressure on his lungs, the pointlessness, the helplessness, the hatred of his curse seething through the words.

He feels the smile this time, the approval, like a swelling warmth on his insides, like a tumour. He knows these feelings don't belong to him.

'Why bother trying to live, why survive? Is there any point, Jack?' The syllables are too harsh, lips grazing over the shell of his ear.

'No,' Jack whispers. The edge of the knife presses a little harder, along the fine balance where skin indents and where it parts.

He sees a shift in the shadows, the blade relaxing, a hand pressed in mock reassurance against his shoulder. 'Humans are so singularly defined by their drive to avoid death, don't you think? This soap opera between the joys of life and fear of their own mortality. Take that away, and what does that make you?'

Jack opens his mouth, the answer on his tongue. He feels a final, gut-wrenching pain through his throat, so sharp it throws everything else into shock, numbness, and he knows he's screaming but the last thing he hears, the only thing, is the gurgle of his own blood.

 


	7. III: Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. *scratches back of neck* So one of the things I hate most is this fic you really like and you get to the end and it's a WIP and it was updated last in 2006--yeah, I'm really sorry everybody (especially you crazy people interested enough in this old thing to subscribe!). But I hope this chapter satisfies, we are entering the second proper arc of this story and things are going to start to get a bit interesting soon ;D Uni is stupidly difficult and busy and I could use a baby-Master to copy answers off plus a TARDIS to give me some actual time to write and reply to comments in too, so bear with me. That's enough angst outside of the actual fic, go forth and enjoy!

***

Slowly, Jack becomes aware of yelling and shouting, sharp, loud noises diffusing through the darkness of sleep and nagging at his consciousness. Growing in his chest is a crushing tightness that jolts the rest of him out of sleep, snapping him upright in the bed with a gasp.

The sheets are sticky and cold with his own blood.

'Jack! Come on, we're already here, _Jack_! I'm not leaving you here, I don't trust you and the TARDIS alone,' calls the Doctor, his knocks becoming increasingly more urgent. 'Don't make me set off the fire extinguishers.'

Fighting an unbelievable headache, Jack stumbles out of bed, snatching his coat off the chair and a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt. 'Coming! Hang on, I'll let you in, just a sec.'

'No time!' comes the fading glee of the Doctor's voice, 'See you in the console room!'

Head pounding, Jack pulls on his clothes automatically, the TARDIS wiping the room clean the second he looks away. He isn't surprised, and he isn't stupid enough to hope the Doctor will cancel their visit, but finally now he has something that will get through the Doctor's head, make him see the lies. The bright little point of hope is only matched by the guilt of having to be the one to break his world apart, time and again. He gathers his resolve, and heads out.

The Doctor is shrugging on his coat, adding some final homing coordinates to the TARDIS before they go. The Master, immaculately overdressed as always, is profoundly bored, leaning back against the console so the Doctor has to weave over and around him to get at the controls. The brushes of thighs and hips is old news, now.

Jack keeps to himself, hoping to signal a détente long enough to get the Doctor alone, but the Master's eyes don't even so much as glance in his direction. For a few moments, he wonders if he could have dreamt it all, but the doubt is so compelling he forcibly scrubs the thought away.

The Doctor bounds to the doors, raising an eyebrow conspiratorially as he splays his fingertips against the wood. 'Shall we?' He flings the door open, bright sunlight streaming into the dim TARDIS interior, a breeze cool and fresh with the scent of flowers wafting across their faces.

Jack peeks his head out the door first, stepping foot onto yellow-green grasslands, the sky mauve, mottled with clouds and filtered light from the surrounding galaxy. One of the suns is just beginning to rise, casting orange streaks across the horizon. Even if half the sky is blocked by the fuzzy sphere of a nearby planet, it's astoundingly beautiful. He feels more than sees the Master's eyes on him as he steps out and around him, lip curled as the grass leaves his dress shoes wet with dew.

The Doctor inhales deeply through his nose, eyes closed and grinning. 'And this is Uthestra Minor, the Tranquil Sea of the--'

'--Eastern Galaxies, Jewel of Orecon, Foundation of Our Serenity, Firm Member of Gratification, yes Doctor, we get the point. How trite of you,' the Master sighs.

Unperturbed, the Doctor continues, 'Famous for seven hundred years of peace, under its royal family. We're right in the middle of their Great Halcyon Era, the year 1408.'

Jack nods in approval. 'It's beautiful. I've heard it's supposed to be the best tourist destination in this sector, if you can get on a tour.'

The Doctor pats the TARDIS fondly. 'Who needs a tour? Come on, I couldn't land her any further in, we've got a bit of a hike to the Royal Palace.'

Obediently, Jack marches through the grass after him, the Master following them sullenly. Jack fixes his attention on that dark blur in the corner of his eye, waiting for even the slightest move. Instead, there's a harsh exhale from behind them as they avoid a particularly muddy patch, and an irritated, 'Lucky you even managed to land inside the _atmosphere_.'

Ahead are pale, grey mountains, fog settling around their upper ranges, and fields in every other direction. They walk into the sunrise, small straw huts dotting some of the more well-kept fields, and the further inwards they travel, the more crops line the landscape. Either they've arrived in the harvest season, or the ground is immensely fertile; lime-green leaves cover the ground in abundance, cordoned off with neat foot-high fences. They spot their first inhabitant an hour into their trip; a tall, well-built humanoid, skin a pleasant pale-blue colour that Jack thinks is particularly attractive. She waves at the interlopers wildly, smiling, and in seconds pulls her children to watch them pass through -- they're paler-coloured than their mother, an almost human grey, chubby and excitable.

'I told you to get the Freak neutered before we left,' comments the Master, 'Honestly, Doctor, is it any wonder they always chase you off the planet.'

The Doctor waves back with equal vigour. 'Ignore him, Jack, he's just upset they like us more--look! Horses!'

Jack says nothing and tries not to think, not to remember. Not yet. The things the Doctor calls horses, Jack is more inclined to classify as rhinos; quadrupedal, stocky things that are armoured with leather-covered bone plates. They sprout stubby horns, like goats, lying placidly in the shade of a nearby hut. Their huge heads raise lazily at the sight of the Doctor's wild gesturing, eyes blinking in complete dismissal as they return to grazing off the thick ground-cover.

The Doctor chatters excitedly; the history of the Royal House of Arcamun, the incredible craftsmanship and ingenuity the Uthestrans are famous for, despite their civilisation only being a few hundred years old. Jack nods along, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he holds a wary pace in front of the Master, whose eyes bore down on them both despite him needling the Doctor under his breath. They reach the foot of the mountains; gentle, clay-soiled outcroppings of rock and that peculiar lush foliage that's neither grass or moss coating their sides. The path along their valleys is well-worn, carved out in deep ruts where carts must run from the plains to the palace.

Jack tires easily, his strength not fully returned, but both Time Lords press on like they've done this a million times before, pulling each other over the rocks that obstruct their path. At the top of a particularly tiring hill, they pause long enough for Jack to brace his hands on his knees and catch his breath, until he's struck again by the beauty laid out before them. The Doctor wasn't kidding. Below the mountains, the fields give way to glistening, polished white marble; marketplaces and dwellings, and at the centre of them all, a huge Byzantine dome embellished with gold and glinting in the morning sun.

'Ah, finally some pleasant scenery, even if equally ancient,' the Master says drily, digging fingertips into the Doctor's shoulder who gazes back up at him a lovestruck teenager.

'I've always wanted to visit,' murmurs the Doctor, gazing across the plains. 'Jack, have you ever been?'

Breath forgotten, Jack climbs on toward the overhangings of a road. 'I watched a great documentary on the climate, once.'

'The Eternal Rains,' the Doctor pants, the image of breathless beauty somewhat ruined by his attempts to haul himself over a boulder. 'We should visit the river, from what I remember it's just behind the palace.'

They endure only a few minutes' more traversing across the hills until clambering on top of a wide road, its path carving a winding route back down to the fields. A few carts, both man-powered and pulled by the rhino-like animals amble by them with only a few glances to their strange trio, making Jack wonder if they've ever seen humans before.

'Primitive,' the Master announces,watching a peculiar kind-of rickshaw wobble past. 'You'd think in a millennia and a half you could manage more than an adult-sized tricycle.'

Jack shrugs. 'I hear they have aircraft.'

The Master shoots him a look equal parts incredulity and hilarity. 'We used to make _spacecraft_ for show-and-tell, Freak.' And after a pause, 'And this idiot printed flames on his.'

The Doctor pouts. 'He's lying. I did no such thing.'

Jack can't help crack a smile anyway and wonder, again, what the Doctor must have been like as a child, and try not to be furiously jealous that the only person who knows is the last person to deserve it.

People within the marketplace are not so unassuming. They are greeted by hordes of townspeople, gathering around the streets in coloured, flowing togas, their children clutching at their skirts and pointing. The Doctor is every bit as excitable as the young, waving and smiling, but the Master is content to smile benevolently and nod with a practiced grace. Jack just wonders when they'll see the torches and pitchforks.

Soon, they discover. Some warriors, heavily armoured with the same leather as the beasts' bone plates, aim the barrels of energy weapons at their chests and one instructs them calmly to accompany the force to the palace. Hands up, the Doctor is only too happy to oblige, and Jack hurries a glance to the Master for guidance, but one hand has dropped down to pinch his eyes shut and he either doesn't notice, or doesn't care, so Jack settles with a no-teeth smile and squares his shoulders.

Though his heart won't stop racing, the escort to the palace is relaxed and friendly. The Doctor manages to strike up a chat with the nearest soldier, posing himself as a tourist with an (obsessive) interest in their local history. The soldier is pleased well enough, and chats about the Festival of the Winds the kingdom has been preparing for in a few suns time.

The palace itself is even more stunning up close. They are made to wait for an audience with the King in its huge opening hall, dazzling bright with polished marble and coloured glass. The architecture is open and airy; large arches framed by gentle green drapes that sway in the wind form windows and the vaulted ceilings make the space appear larger than Jack knows it is. Guards hurry through a pair of black wooden doors and out again, through which Jack can only glimpse gold carpeting, until they are escorted through.

The King, Jack thinks, looks kind of like a cartoon character, his skin polished to an almost cobalt blue and a long, greying beard braided down to his belt. His eyes soften as the newcomers approach, beckoning them closer with a gentle wave.

'I would very much like to know how travelers managed to land spacecraft within our defences,' the King intones, by way of introduction.

The Doctor grins. 'Accident,' he says, as if they'd never left Malcassairo. He opens his mouth only to be cut off by a vicious elbow to the ribs, his breath escaping him in a gasp torn inside-out.

'What he _means_ ,' states the Master, inclining his head graciously, 'is that we didn't intend to land without authorisation, only I'm afraid our ship has an unbelievable capacity for crashing--we're historians, seeking first-hand account of the Jewel of Orecon.'

The King smiles knowingly, offering a hand to shake. 'Forgive me if I hesitate to trust unannounced visitors who are completely invisible on radar.'

The Master instead raises his own hand beside his face, palm inwards, and nods again more deeply. 'Unannounced visitors from quite far in your future, not to mention our ship is hardly larger than your throne. I'm not entirely surprised.'

This display seems to convince the King, who smiles broadly and pushes himself to his feet, lost in cascades of silver robes. 'Ah, historians! Learned men, at that. Well, I'm happy to say it is our honour to host you as long as you may require, rooms for you will be seen to at the Palace. I can only hope your visit will engender within you the same pride for my people as I have. How long will you be planning to study here?'

'Oh, well,' says the Doctor, recovering his voice, 'A few days, maybe a little more, it's really only a short trip, of course.'

The King offers to him the same greeting given by the Master, before chuckling, 'Surely you at least plan to stay until the Festival of the Winds, there is truly no compare in all of Orecon.'

'Well,' says the Doctor, fumbling the greeting, 'Yes, but--'

'Come, let the servants show you to your quarters,' says the King, sweeping them out of the throne room and following behind. 'And what titles are you known by?'

'John Smith,' says the Doctor, followed by a delicately enunciated, 'The Master.'

'Captain Jack Harkness,' says Jack, and wonders why on Earth it's _him_ who gets the frowns.

Two guards lead them all up a winding staircase to a quiet corner of the Palace, rich with woven silk drapes and tapestries in such finery the art they depict is almost photographic. Here, the King provides them three individual rooms, the Doctor's across the hall opposite Jack and the Master. All are open to the fresh morning breeze and simply furnished.

They are introduced by name to the entire complement of staff, servants and Palace guards, before being taken to the gardens where numerous heavily-plumaged waterfowl graze at the lemon-green grass. Seated beneath a blossoming willow tree, the King launches into an excited history of his bloodline.

They only make it through the third century before the one Jack remembers is Chief of the Royal Guard flings the gates open, barely spluttering out his, 'My King, i-if you could spare a moment of your time,' over the heaving of his breath.

'Ah, my apologies,' smiles the King at them, and turns to address the small crowd of guards filing in through the gate.

From their midst, an attractive female strides out of the crowd, sliding an eyeglass down over one eye and balancing a tablet in her other hand. 'Father, I'm afraid we need an answer on the trade deal today, the delegation won't be back along this route for another year or more.'

The King smiles broadly, embracing her in thick arms. 'Aithera! Darling, back so soon from the South? I've missed you terribly. Come, you must meet our guests; historians, from quite far in the future I'm led to believe.' He grabs her hand, and pulls her over to the bench, where she greets each of them in turn with the customary salute.

'This is my great-niece, Aithera,' says the King, 'and these are our guests - Mr. Smith, Captain Harkness, and Master…' he trails off, gesturing.

'Just the Master, I think,' offers the Master. He stands and returns the salute with a polite smile more at home in Westminster.

Aithera raises her eyebrows in an unspoken 'Of what?' that Jack admires immensely, and continues, 'Excuse me, gentlemen - Father, I need an answer. They're offering a fleet of their best warships, as far as we can tell, and access along this sector's trade route if we keep our end of the bargain.'

'Father?' Jack asks, turning to the Doctor.

The Doctor leans in, murmuring 'Term of endearment, I imagine,' into Jack's ear. He hops to his feet, joining the Master to the side of the willow tree. 'We'd best be off, then, lots to document and such. Lovely to meet you!'

The King breaks away from a quickly-heating discussion, saluting once more and calling 'Follow Eruk, he'll show you to your rooms, and my deepest apologies to leave you so soon.'

They leave, following the guard through a back gate. Jack doesn't fail to notice the Master's eyes lingering on the pair, their argument concealed under rapid whispers.

***

Jack has barely settled into his room and begun to plan how to get the Doctor alone when a pair of guards knock on the door. They apologise profusely, which makes Jack wonder if it's some kind of national pastime (and if that's the real reason the Doctor wanted to visit), and explain that due to the delegation arriving later that evening, and Aithera's unexpected visit, he'll have to give up his room. There's a pang of disappointment when he realises it should be the Doctor he picks, the Doctor he should lie awake with, watching the stars and swapping gossip. But it's the Master he needs to watch so long as the Doctor refuses to believe he has to. He takes one last look out the window and sighs, then packs his things almost as soon as he'd set them out, and carries them one door down the hall.

What he doesn't expect is the Master reclining back on one bed while Aithera folds togas on the second bed near the window.

'Captain,' Aithera nods, raising her palm in greeting once more. 'My utmost apologies to intrude on your stay, especially in official capacity, rather than friendlier terms.'

Jack resists the urge to rest his head in his palm. 'Jack is just fine, Miss. I hope you're not the Princess or something and we're stealing your room.'

She laughs, flipping the monocle off her eye. 'Hardly, I'm minister to the King's counsel. I requested this room anyway, I barely see anybody but counsellors these days, much less _aliens_.' Casting a dirty look towards the Master, she adds, 'I can't say I'm thrilled exactly that you'd greet a princess by falling asleep.'

The Master opens his eyes and props himself up on one elbow. 'Dreadfully sorry, I wouldn't dare disturb your, er... _official capacity_.'

'Oh, hardly, I should apologise for disturbing your sleep,' Aithera fires back, 'I hear humans sleep a great deal.'

Jack watches the Master's smile grow wider and his stomach drops.

'Whatever gave you that idea? Time Lord, actually,' corrects the Master delicately, suddenly all ears. 'Captain Harkness is technically human, if you swing that way, but I'm afraid we've already claimed him as a kind of pet.'

Aithera snorts. 'Ah, and I'm a garden fairy. Pleased to meet you.'

'No,' the Master says, hoisting himself off the bed. 'Look.' He drags one of her hands by the wrist beneath his suit jacket, Aithera's back stiffening at the contact. And then she listens, and her deep brown eyes grow wide.

She laughs in disbelief, pressing her hand against the Master's chest. 'Incredible! If only Father knew - a real Time Lord! Is this what you do, go around making accounts of everybody?'

Smiling down at her as an adult does to a child, the Master replies, 'Not exactly. My associate is also a Time Lord, from the same Chapter, though he acts like a squealing human at the best of times. We're hardly traditionalists.'

'And by tradition, you mean confiscating everybody else's advances in time travel and doing nothing useful with your own?' Aithera's face suddenly turns aghast, and she stutters, 'Pardon me, I mean--'

The Master raises his hands in peace, 'No, no, that's precisely what I mean by tradition. I do like an outspoken politician.'

 _You would_ , thinks Jack.

Aithera bristles at that, and she drops her bag to the floor with a little more force than necessary. 'I'm afraid I'm nothing of the sort. Anyway, I must attend to Father and the trade agreement, good evening.' She grabs a shawl off her upturned belongings on the bed and leaves, the Master pointedly forcing her to walk around him.

'I _like_ her,' the Master says, smiling a shark's grin.

Jack ignores him. 'Will you tell me what's up with the code of conduct here? I have no idea what counts for rude in this place.'

The Master frowns tragically. 'Oh, poor Jack, you'll be _fine_. Keep your eyes on the floor, answer nothing but "Yes, Master" and "No, Master" and leave the rest to the grown-ups.' He ruffles Jack's hair roughly and gestures to the doorway with exaggerated impatience.

Jack fights conflicting sensations of electricity down his spine and conditioned nausea, but it's the latter that wins out and he's forced to swallow bile before he can make it outside. He catches the Master wiping his hand on his trousers and _aches_ to punch him, or better yet, shoot him, but it's then he notices that the room opposite his is empty. 'What the fuck did you do with him?'

' _Language_ , Freak! Now that's rude in any culture,' snaps the Master, a hand yanking him back by the coat collar. Jack growls and slaps it away, but the Master is even quicker than he remembers and catches his wrist. He can't help but notice the corners of his nails, filed sharp, where they dig deep into his radial pulse. 'You'll take that back.'

Jack doesn't even recognise he's opened his mouth when he hears the 'Sorry, Master,' bounce off his tongue.

The Master straightens his tie. 'Even the dumbest animal knows when it's being watched. Don't tell me you don't know the answer to that question. Don't even _think_ you can lie to me.'

Drawing deep from a near-bottomless anger , Jack's voice drips equally in hate. 'I'll tell him, you know. As soon as I find him I'll tell him everything, what you did to me, what you're planning here, all of it. This isn't your game anymore.'

Unfased, he raises his eyebrows. 'Yes, tell the Doctor I spoke to our roommate. I'm sure he'll love to hear I'm finally sharing his fetish for the local wildlife.'

'Did you forget the bit where you _murdered_ me?' Jack snarls, fingering the grip of his pistol.

'Is it really murder if you come back?' the Master muses, 'Fine. Convince the Doctor I watched you drown in your own blood. I've been on my very best behaviour, you know, I'm not sure you really want to test his loyalties. I promise it always ends in disappointment.' Jack opens his mouth to protest, but he's cut off. This time the voice is deadly serious. 'What's next? You think the Doctor would abandon _me_ just because I've killed you? Once, a hundred times, two hundred and…hmm, sixty-seven times, is it, Freak?'

'Yes,' says Jack, with not-entirely fabricated confidence. Yes, the Doctor he loves would.

'Maybe he'd beg me to hurt him instead of you. Maybe he'd plead you didn't deserve it, that what I did to you and your nasty little planet was all his fault. Have you ever had him beg you to make him suffer, make him _pay_?'

'No,' says Jack, denial warring with the sensation the world is about to crash out from under him.

'Well I have,' says the Master coldly. 'And do you know why he does it?'

'No.'

'Because he'd rather believe he deserves me, than accept he _wants_ me.'

Jack finds of the thousands of words and denials and insults careening around his head, he has nothing to say.

'I'd really watch out which voodoo doll I was sticking the pins into,' the Master sighs, his frown a clown's mockery.

 _It doesn't mean anything,_ Jack repeats to himself. 'Where is he?'

'I'd usually say he's busy fiddling with some human girl, but as it is, I'm at a loss.'

Enough. Jack turns on his heel and strides out the hallway.

***

Jack finds he doesn't get very far. His anxiety only compounding itself by the minute, he takes a good fifteen minutes to remember which way it is out of the castle, and wastes another five wondering if it's quicker to throw himself out the window. In the end, he decides it's probably not worth being burnt at the stake by the locals (again). There's a good chance the Master will kill him before he makes it to the Doctor anyway.

He glances over his shoulder and takes the first street he can find, setting out at a brisk walk though it's not like running could draw any more attention than his appearance already does. A small throng of locals gathers around him as he walks, some of their children running and ducking around his feet.

Running his hand through his hair, Jack approaches one of them. 'I'm looking for my friend, he looks a bit like me - same skin, crazy hair - do you know where he went?'

The woman shakes her head so hard her piercings jangle. 'No, no, I wouldn't dare, I'm sorry!'

Jack chuckles a little and smiles, 'Heck, no, I'm sorry.' He salutes for her and steps back, ignoring the growing number of people pushing in to watch. 'Captain Jack Harkness, pleasure to meet you. I think something might have happened to my friend, I was wondering if you'd seen him.'

A light mauve blush spreads over her cheeks. 'Oh, n-no, I'm really sorry, I promise I'd never,' she stutters, pulling her toga tighter over one shoulder. Something behind him catches her eye, and she gasps.

Jack turns to see the Master strolling towards them, carefully nudging children and adults out of the way with the flat of his palm. He salutes to the woman automatically, who returns the gesture and points at Jack, to which he nods and pulls him aside.

He brings Jack's ear so close to his lips Jack can feel their wetness. 'Oh, nice choice, Freak. But why all the ceremony, why not just fuck her against the wall, shove yourself inside and let the kids watch her scream - I bet she'd scream, they say Uthestran screams sound like _music_ and I am just dying to find out--'

Jack grabs hold of his lapels and decks him, _hard_. The Master's head snaps to the side and he hisses out an exhale, but when his eyes open again they are calm, soft amber. Jack lines up for a second punch and _this_ time he's going to snap his jaw in two, but then he's hauled back by the shoulders and five hefty guards are pointing spears and laser guns at him.

Rubbing a hand over his jaw, the Master hurriedly salutes and says, 'My most interminable apologies, I should never have let him out of my sight. He probably won't calm down without his owner, we haven't quite managed to house-break him yet.' Glancing at the weapons, he adds, 'I assure you, I'm the only one in danger when he goes rabid.'

Saluting, a guard nods to him and lowers his spear. 'I once had an Orouk just the same, it bit everyone spare my wife. Do you need us to restrain him?' The others follow his lead, their weapons lowered to the ground.

'That will hardly be necessary,' sighs the Master, 'But I would very much appreciate if you could bring me to my associate before he takes my head off.'

The guard smiles a little less warmly. 'Ah, I'm sorry to say our patrol only takes us around the Palace.'

'Of course,' the Master agrees, 'I'll be sure to mention your bravery to His Majesty just the same.'

'It would not be out of the question to search within the city walls, at least,' he backtracks, thick eyebrows raised. 'For such esteemed guests, and the safety of our people.'

The Master bows curtly. 'It would be my honour.'

***

Jack is grumpily manhandled through the square and back to the Palace, where the guards decide to circle around the city edge and station lookouts.

'Our apologies to have no information, but you can be assured we'll have returned you to your companion by first sunset,' says the first guard, who Jack can only assume is in command.

His desire to break jawbones no more diminished, Jack mutters, 'Pretty rubbish guards if you didn't notice a great big pink alien running around.'

'It talks!' the commander exclaims, jumping backwards. 'I beg your forgiveness, I had no idea...we would not dare impinge your honour by spying, or by any other dishonesties,' he adds pointedly, after recovering from the shock.'

Patting Jack between the shoulder blades just hard enough he loses his breath momentarily, the Master answers, 'The respect shown for our privacy has been incomparable, thank you. I'm quite anxious to find my associate, if you'll pardon his poor education.'

The guards march him halfway around the city, the second sun passing out from the shade of the planet and raising the temperature a good fifteen degrees. The Master sheds his suit jacket and squints against the sun and Jack wishes he didn't have to compete with the body heat of the two Uthestrans. He settles for glaring instant death into the gravel beneath his feet.

He starts to seriously worry for the Doctor's safety just in time for the party to reach a large square, taped off and bordered with half-constructed wooden scaffolding. Unsurprisingly, the Doctor is chatting animatedly behind the barriers with a stocky, short man, his hair half shaved off in careful designs.

'I'll ensure the King hears about your kind service,' thanks the Master, saluting briefly. 'I'm sure we'll be fine from here, deepest apologies to have interrupted your…patrolling.'

Satisfied, the guards release him at last, and the Master drags Jack along by the collar until the Doctor spots them and jogs over. Their work considered done, the group of guards return to their posts.

The Doctor casts a judgemental eye over them both; the Master's jacket slung over one shoulder and tie loosened, Jack ripping himself out of the Master's grasp. 'Gotten into trouble already?'

'Ran off without me again? I can see where your humans get it from,' the Master fires back, flicking his gaze across to where the man picks up some chalk and starts marking out wood.

The Doctor's face curls into a frown. 'Well, there's better things to do than fighting, you know. I've been helping Mark out with the decorations, there's an awful lot to get done in three days.'

'Mark?' Jack echoes.

'Markhai over there,' the Doctor says excitedly. 'Come on, both of you, I've told him all about you!'

"Mark" is, upon closer inspection, somewhat sun-wizened and his face stuck in a permanent squint between a smile and a grimace. He wears a plum toga, as opposed to the more common white that Jack has mostly seen. He salutes enthusiastically and sets his wood down, Jack responding in turn. The Master is more preoccupied with the construction work.

'May the great spirits guide your journeys and fortunes, my friends, I shall never be privy to such an honour as this the rest of my days,' Mark grins breathlessly, proceeding to awkwardly shake their hands by the fist. 'I hope that the festivities do please you, I have been working ever since I was given the plans, and they do look quite marvellous.'

'Oh, of course,' says the Doctor, 'Would you like an extra few pairs of hands?'

Laughing raucously, Mark looks down at his hands and laughs. 'I would look like a beast, could you imagine such a thing? The strange things you aliens do!'

'He means we can all pitch in and help, if you like,' Jack grins.

'Oh, yes, of course,' Mark chatters, bundling up reams of paper and dumping them on an upturned crate. 'Here are the construction plans, if you are glad to follow them. I have the wood all to size.'

The Doctor catches the Master's eye and gestures his head towards them, meanwhile picking up the uppermost paper. 'Oh, fireworks? How brilliant! And coloured braziers, just spectacular. You don't exaggerate, do you, Mark?'

Jack snorts at this. His blue complexion turning mauve, Mark fiddles with a wooden nose piercing. 'Never, not on my life, I swear it! If you could attach some pipe work we could begin hoisting up the lanterns, I have most of the square complete.'

'Gas? Surely we can manage some electricity, at least,' floats the Master's voice, his head turning up from halfway across the square. 'Don’t you think, Doctor?'

The Doctor splutters a little. 'I suppose--well, yes, technically--but three days, and that's assuming the raw materials, unless you want to hike back to the TARDIS--'

'Shut up, Doctor,' the Master calls. He strides back, sighing theatrically. 'Did you run away from the nursery, as well as the Academy?'

'Uh-lucktrosee?' Mark repeats, the syllables slow and unfamiliar on his tongue.

Ignoring him, the Master shoves Jack forwards. 'Go on, Freak. Anything ferromagnetic will do, otherwise steal some ore if you have to. And please tell me this carpentry job _already_ involves nails.'

Jack looks to the Doctor, whose nose is suspiciously buried in the blueprints. 'Go on, Jack, you're good at finding things.'

And so Jack does, grateful to be off babysitting duty for even half an hour.

***

The first sun is hovering just below the roofs and canopies of the marketplace, its orange glow casting bright colour across the cobblestones. The heat has settled into a warm, earthy humidity that radiates off the clay bricks and penetrates even into the cool corners of stone where the suns haven't touched. Jack trudges his way back to the square, a wicker basket full of jewellery wire and pots and utensils he'd bargained from the market heavy in his arms.

The Doctor and the Master are arguing heatedly in a corner and Jack sighs, dumping his basket near Markhai who is labouring away at a verandah-like frame, nails held pressed between his lips.

'...unbelievable, if you put all the lanterns across the same circuit you'd have to triple the power output, and _I'm not the one who complained_ at the idea of a labour force. Just how did you expect to apply specific voltages for ignition on top of that, hmm?'

'But we'd lose all the power anyway across fifteen separate circuits--'

Jack snaps his fingers between the two of them. 'I got metal. And I'll help if you can stop the tantrums long enough to tell me what we're going to do.'

The Master's fingers curl into a fist, just gently enough to be unnoticed. 'Pass me the plans, and something to write with, Freak. If you can't find anything better than charcoal it'll be in your own blood, and I'll use your phalanges for pens.'

Jack is saved a pointed retort by Mark bouncing up beside them, an entire scroll's worth of paper pouring over his arms and his finest glass pen poised between his fingertips. 'For you, my dear friends.'

Plucking the pen from his fingers, lip curling, the Master roughly sketches something octagonal and passes it to Mark. 'Will I have to sit through your whining and thoroughly uncreative apologies, or can you make this for me?'

His grin dimming only slightly, Mark grabs the paper and twists it a hundred-eighty degrees. 'Of course, for such esteemed guests, I would almost be offended if it were not so presumptuous to think there was any question. But, I must admit, it will be another day before I can get this thickness of wood, unless the delay is too unsuitable.'

'Good,' says the Master. 'Now, light a brazier, Freak, and fetch me whatever trash you managed to sniff out of the garbage.'

Jack shoots the Doctor a look, who shoots Jack a frustratingly-more light-hearted one in return, and fetches the basket.

It takes some time to melt the excess copper and tin down, and hammering and drawing it out into thin strands is equally tiresome under the sweaty sun. The Master, shirtsleeves rolled up, tends the coals and stirs the alloy slurry with a thin marble rod. The Doctor, meanwhile, is finishing the latest batch of moulding, and they have almost manufactured a small quantity of wire, wound around a hollow wooden tube.

The second sun is fading behind the buildings, and Markhai wipes sweat from his brow and declares, amongst many well-wishes, that he has to return to his family.

'Brilliant to meet you,' the Doctor grins, shaking hands again.

Mark curtseys and returns an 'Ah, the pleasure is only mine,' and leaves Jack alone with the Time Lords, his bags and tools weighing heavily from both hands.

The Doctor waves goodbye and runs a grime-caked hand through his hair, looking down with admiration on the fruits of their labour. 'Excellent job; Master, Jack. We'll have this place up to New New York New Year's Eve standards in no-time. Or is that Independence Day?'

Jack gives a half-chuckle. 'Let's try not to hope they'll blow us up.'

'They won't need to, the Doctor manages to do it alone on a near-daily basis,' the Master deadpans, tossing his rod to the ground. 'I sincerely hope you aren't intending to do this all night.'

'Nope,' says the Doctor, taking one last glance around. 'Come on, Jack, I've been wanting to try moss soup since my fifth regeneration.'

***

Jack rolls over on his mat, the covers cinched tightly around his shoulders. A cool night breeze brings the scent of fresh grass and mountain pines, rustling gently through palms and vines, but he can't bring himself to fall asleep. The Master, it seems, has no need or desire to sleep himself and lies on his back, watching the ceiling steadily. Jack shudders to imagine what he thinks about all night long.

Stomach contentedly full, Jack's thoughts wander; to Ianto, to his next move, to asking the Doctor if he can go home. Outside, he can hear the chatter of the last few townsfolk heading home, vendors closing their shops.

And then, steadily, another noise breaks through his thoughts; hushed voices and footsteps, heading closer down the corridor. He keeps still and listens hard. The voices halt outside the door, raising in volume and abruptly ceasing, and then the door nudges open.

Through the crack of one eye, Jack can make out Aithera padding across the room. She sets her things down on the bed, and slips out of her toga, but her beauty is the last thing on Jack's mind.

'Good evening,' says the Master, voice a little rough from disuse.

Aithera barely startles, selecting a thin slip from her pile of clothing and pulling it on with little regard. 'I would be quite sorry to wake you, but I see your sleep this afternoon was adequate.'

Jack can hear the smile in his voice. 'No need for apologies. Hard day at work?'

There's a stiff pause. Aithera sizes him up with a long, tense stare, but in the end her posture slackens and she sits heavily on the edge of the bed. 'Yes. Did you...did you say you and your friend were dissidents?' She takes a breath, and adds, 'Forgive me for what I said earlier.'

The Master chuckles warmly, a sound Jack's never heard from him before. 'That would be a very mild way of putting it.'

'Then you know,' she says, cautiously, 'about a people lying stagnant beneath their rulers, never-changing, never growing.' Her fingertips fiddle with the edge of the blanket, nails picking at the seam.

'Ah, but does a perfect society ever need to grow?' the Master asks, a touch of sarcasm blunting his words.

'Perfect?' Aithera echoes, 'I see the most incredible things, when aliens pass through, when delegations visit our planet and tourists and refugees. And in a thousand years, all we can claim for progress are some very good wines and knitted flax. Yes, when there are famines we feed the hungry, and no person goes without shelter, but neither is there learning, or science, beyond those in the Royal Family who work within the Palace walls.'

'And Daddy dearest doesn't share your point of view, does he?' mutters the Master, darkly.

Aithera hesitates a moment. 'No. And the people have no idea that there could be any other way to live. Father is...he is so incredibly stubborn! I say, allow the people to trade, allow them to make their own fortunes and progress will follow. But of course all he sees in allowing trade from other planets is those who would take advantage of us, or go to war for the gifts of our people and lands.'

The Master leans a little more upright. 'Oh, but that's hardly true. I've seen Daddy's tin soldiers and you can't honestly tell me that anybody believes those weapons were manufactured on-world.'

'He says he is protecting our people, and our way of life from greed. He says I am too young to understand, and Father is usually right,' she sighs. 'It is wrong of me to doubt his judgement.'

'No,' says the Master. 'What's the point of a ruler if they don't rule? Things change. Eventually this cushy little status quo keeping your backwater planet in line is going to _crumble_ , from the inside or out, it doesn't matter. Either you beat it to the punch, or you keep being your passive, helpless selves and let those with the power decide your futures for you. There are no other options.'

There is a very long, quiet pause. The Master exhales slowly, lips pressed shut, while Aithera stares down at the fabric between her fingers.

'Thank you. I'm sorry to have disturbed you,' she whispers, glancing towards him. 'Please, sleep well.'

 


	8. III: Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand it's an update! Thank you to all the lovely people who left reviews or messages, I do hope you enjoy <3 exams are currently insinuating themselves up my behind and I can't say I'm enjoying it, but procrastination is most definitely the best inspiration to write. In this chapter, we tip a box of cornflour into the plot but most of the tension stays beneath the (lumpy) surface. Can you tell I've been reading some classic Who novelisations? Anyway, have fun and see you next time :D

The Master does not, in fact, sleep at all that night, and neither does Jack. He spends the few hours before dawn with a growing twist in his stomach, his body suddenly remembering what it means to have a real circadian rhythm and enforcing it with a vengeance. But Jack can't sleep, and wouldn't dare let himself if he could.

Aithera wakes early, dressing quickly into her mauve toga and taking a stone tablet with her. Jack follows some time after, grateful to leave unchallenged, and heads for the Doctor's room.

The Doctor is reading, his nose buried in an elaborately decorated scroll which consists purely of pictures and artwork. 'Morning, Jack.'

'Morning,' Jack replies, and says, 'What's that?'

'The Festival of the Winds,' the Doctor says. 'Some sort of religious text - see, these are the five divine spirits, embodying the winds which bring life to their planet. The waves of the oceans, the oxygen for the trees, the breaths we take, all very poetic.'

'I see a bunch of squiggles,' Jack says, squinting. 'Poetic squiggles, I'm sure. What's the plan for today?'

'Well,' says the Doctor, 'I promised Mark I'd finish off the lights. But I thought you might like to visit the Eternal Rains together.'

'Is he coming?' Jack can't help ask, jerking his thumb at the door behind them.

The Doctor looks a little hurt. 'It's not like I was planning on leaving him.'

'Mm,' Jack responds, and that seems to end the conversation.

He and the Doctor eat a light breakfast of flatbread and vine leaves before they head out to the market square, the Master in tow. They spend the first few hours manufacturing more wire, wound into neat little coils, but as the second sun rises the heat rapidly becomes unbearable and work slows to a halt.

As they seek refuge in the shade of a small canopy, a rapid patter of footsteps alerts Jack to Markhai, bouncing excitedly towards their workspace, a bundle of wood in his arms. He bounds past Jack and the Doctor to dump the planks at the Master's feet, who looks up from where he had been cleaning his fingernails.

'The plywood that you requested, at my honour,' says Mark, digging through his satchel for the plans the Master had drawn up previously. 'If you would be so kind, we could finish the construction within hours.'

The Master casts one eye over the wood. 'Less, I expect. Cut these into eight equal lengths and we can begin from there.'

Jack is happy to sit by the shade and watch them both cut and sand the wood - or, watch Mark cut and sand, and the Master offer snide comments every so often. But the Doctor bores quickly and starts twisting animal-shapes out of the wire, or demonstrating the hundred different shoelace knots he's learnt to Jack, or rolling stones across the paved floor and scoring points based on which table they land under.

The Master, predictably, snaps first. 'If you can't honestly sit still for three minutes at a time, then could you at least be insufferable somewhere else?'

The Doctor seems affronted. 'Fine, then. Come on, Jack, we're going to go for a walk.'

Jack looks between them both, used to it by now, and follows the Doctor out automatically.

***

It's hot. Jack's shirt is sticky on his back with sweat and his feet feel like they're boiling within his boots. The Doctor on the other hand, swaddled in his three layers, seems perfectly comfortable save for the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. They make their way through thick jungle, along a thin little path recommended by the townsfolk through the mountains.

It's taken at least an hour, Jack is sure, to reach the outskirts of the valley and the foot of the mountain ranges. For miles at first they had come across farms and crops, thick with lime-coloured greenery. Carts had ambled their way past them, towards the Palace, laden with fruits and vegetables larger than Jack had ever seen. He can tell now that the run-off from the mountains is what's making the valley so fertile; the air humid and thick with the smell of fresh leaves and thick moss, the clean scent of running water.

The Doctor wipes his forehead, panting a little. 'Isn't it just beautiful, Jack? It's no wonder these forests are sacred to them.'

Jack nods, too winded to say much more. The incline is almost straight up, the path stippled with large stones and rotting tree-trunks. He cranes his neck to the sky but the canopy is too thick to see the top of the mountains.

The Doctor rests a hand on the nearest tree, looming hundreds of meters above his head. 'Amazing. These have to be hundreds of years old.'

Honestly, Jack's seen bigger, but he grins at the Doctor anyway. Bracing his hands on his knee, he climbs a few steps higher, and almost slips on his thoroughly muddied trouser-cuffs.

Following with laboured breath, the Doctor continues, 'We had forests, on Gallifrey, but nothing like this. More like orchards, really; the leaves would catch the light of the sun like they were on fire. Wading through the leaves in Autumn like seas of liquid silver.'

Jack pauses and smiles down at him. 'I wish I could have been there.'

The Doctor doesn't meet his eyes. 'I remember hiding in the trees for hours. The robes we wore were the same colour as the grass, and it took them all day to find us - it really wasn't worth getting caught, but we kept doing it anyway.'

He doesn't need to ask who. 'What, did they put you in detention?' Jack prods instead, trying to imagine a floppy-haired Doctor in sleeves too long for him writing lines in some giant TARDIS.

'Well,' the Doctor says, pausing to catch his breath, 'Twelve hours of sitting through disciplinary council was detention enough. Can you imagine an entire hour of a bunch of thousand-year-old professors debating whether we were missing class or skipping it?'

'Aren't they the same?' says Jack.

'Yes, see, that was the problem,' the Doctor says, shuddering.

In front of them, the path is blocked by a huge boulder, its surface coated in thick muddy moss and half-rotten plant detrius. Jack locks his fingers and hoists the Doctor up on one side, narrowly avoiding a foot to the face. He scrambles over the lip of the boulder, Jack's eyes squeezed shut against the cloud of dirt he dislodges, and whistles low.

'Jack, you _have_ to see this. This is brilliant!' the Doctor exclaims, his voice going high-pitched again. He leans over the boulder's edge and offers a slim hand to Jack.

It suddenly occurs to Jack that this is the first time he's had the Doctor alone, properly alone. Just the two of them and a world nobody's ever explored before, with only their wits to get them through. He realises he should tell him about the Master, but can't quite bring himself to ruin this little moment when he can forget any of it ever happened, easily. And Jack finds it so hard to forget these days, retcon or no retcon. At least, he won't ruin it _yet_.

Jack grasps the Doctor's hand firmly and he hauls him up with surprising strength for his small frame. And then Jack sees the lake beneath them, and the gentle mist of rain floating serenely over the treetops.

'Woah,' Jack says, staring dumbly. The view is indescribably beautiful. The lake overlooks the trees down the mountain ridges below them, rainbows playing amongst the leaves and the rain. Huge fungi and ferns, and other plants Jack doesn't recognise dot the valleys, rising up through the canopies where the rain diffracts their colours into mosaics of light, like an illustration out of a children's book come to life. And the lake is fed by a gentle waterfall, tumbling off a series of stacked rocks that rise up to the summit on their left, the rumbling of water splashing thick and heavy amongst the trees and the heat. A small trickle of water tips over the edge of the lake, like the lip of a crater, and disappears into the trees beneath the ridge they have climbed. Jack can see, far beneath them, where the run-off coalesces into a wide river which snakes back towards the Palace.

The Doctor cups his hands into the water at the shore, drinking deeply. Eyes closed, he sighs happily as the water runs cool down his throat. Jack realises his injuries have healed.

Jack takes a few mouthfuls of water himself, pulling undone his shoelaces and toeing his boots off in the sandy dirt. Rolling up his trouser legs, he wades a few steps into the lake, the water refreshingly cool.

The Doctor looks up at him, grinning, water running down his chin. 'You think I'd be bored of it after all these years, but this never really gets old.'

A funny sensation wells up in Jack's middle, fighting against the thick dread weighing down his insides. It takes a few moments to let himself feel it at all, but it's infectious, and then he's closing the few steps between him and the Doctor with a wicked grin and _shoving_ him into the water.

The Doctor flails about awkwardly, spluttering water, like he can hardly believe Jack really just did that. 'You...you _pushed_ me,' he pouts.

'I did,' says Jack, smugly.

The Doctor meets his grin with an arched eyebrow. 'You're going to regret that.'

'Am I,' responds Jack, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it on top of his shoes. Starting on his trousers, he eyes the Doctor slyly.

The Doctor lays back and floats in the water, paddling his way out into the centre of the lake. 'Yep- _p_.'

Jack eases into the water, kicking out with an easy breaststroke. He ducks his head under a couple of times, the water so clear he could easily make out the sand underneath his feet if it weren't so frothed from the waterfall.

The Doctor leans back up, treading water and watching him warily with a grin playing at the corner of his lips. Jack fights hard to keep his face straight, but can't help grinning back and inadvertently giving the Doctor the perfect warning to dodge the huge splash of water he slashes towards him.

Laughing, Jack watches the Doctor flip his soaked fringe back onto his head where it ought to belong. His eyes are scrunched shut just long enough that Jack takes him by surprise with another splash straight into his face.

Coughing, the Doctor curls up in the water and fiddles with something under the surface, Jack still giggling too hard to take advantage of him. He looks Jack in the eye for one long, mischievous second, and flips onto his back and kicks hard.

Showered in water, Jack tries to hold his breath, but he's already winded and can't help laugh even harder. He's laughing too hard to splash back, the Doctor not sparing him any mercy, and they don't stop until the Doctor's once-white Converse smacks him in the face.

Jack grabs the shoe possessively, glancing once over the waterfall for dramatic effect.

'You wouldn't,' protests the Doctor, water streaming out over his lower lip.

Jack grins widely. 'I would,' he says, and lobs it over the rocks, spraying water in all directions.

The Doctor watches him, jaw dropped, and Jack joins him to stare as the shoe bobs along over the edge of the waterfall and tumbles back into the lake. Kicking out, the Doctor chases after it, shrugging off his suit jacket as he swims. Jack watches him duck under the frothing current, and soon loses his outline under the thick white of the water.

He waits forty seconds, and then he starts to seriously worry. 'Doctor?' Without a second's more hesitation, he tears his way through the water and dives deep under the falls.

The water is too violent to see anything, the falls smacking hard against his back like needles. He can't make out anything; shapes and light lost to white, and froth, rushing around his eyes. Blindly, he gropes out for a limb or anything he can recognise as the Doctor, but soon runs out of breath and is forced to return for air. Gulping as much oxygen into his lungs as he can, he dives under again.

And then, something cold and hard clamps around his leg and drags him down, down, down.

Jack fights hard, kicking and successfully hitting something soft and fleshy, but the thing doesn't release its grip. His chest is burning and he can feel his muscles start to give in, and no matter how many times it happens he _doesn't want to die_. _Please_ , Jack thinks, _please not here._

Then he's being pulled upwards, through the surface and he heaves and coughs great breaths and prises his eyelids open.

The Doctor is squinting at him, hand clamped over his nose which is leaking a suspicious orange-pink. 'Ow,' he says. 'Told you you'd regret that.'

Jack feels like even if he didn't drown, he's probably about to have a heart attack anyway. 'That wasn't funny.'

'Not even a little bit?' prods the Doctor, sniffing and swiping at the side of his nose.

Jack relents a bit; he's cute like this. 'Maybe just a bit. A really, really tiny bit. The kind that might just be some dust in your eye or something.'

The Doctor manoeuvres his other shoe off his foot, knotting them both together and floating them towards the shore. 'Well, maybe you just say that because you didn't see your face.'

' _My_ face?' Jack echoes, 'You'd better be glad I didn't pack a camera. How did you do that, anyway?'

'Oh,' says the Doctor, 'Stay underwater? Respiratory bypass, very handy when your species tends to end up on planets without breathable atmosphere.'

Jack ponders on this. 'Must have made for some great swimming competitions at home.'

The Doctor shrugs. 'Wasn't much in the way of swimming. Bit undignified, especially with three or more layers of robes at a time. I didn't even learn how till I was stuck on Earth for a while.'

'With UNIT?' Jack asks, lying back with his limbs spread.

'Yeah,' the Doctor replies, and says no more about it.

They both float to the end of the lake, where they spend a while admiring the view onto the jungle ranges below them. The water cascading over the edge seems to drop so far down it disappears. Jack listens to the Doctor explain the geography for a long while; the volcano which must have formed here aeons ago and, long fallen dormant, left a crater. He's heard about how fertile volcanic ash is, but listens to the Doctor tell him anyway.

Jack's fingers have gone wrinkled by the time they make it to the shore of the lake and dry off. The Doctor is content to wander around in his wet clothes, but Jack finds the first sun has already set and the air is rather chilly this high up without it.

Pleasantly aching, Jack sets about heading back, easing himself over the boulder blocking their way back to the path. He offers the Doctor his hand as he scoots his way down, and when both pairs of feet are firmly on the ground, he still doesn't let go.

***

They return to a rapid and very one-sided argument between the Master and Markhai, which halts the second the pair catch eye of Jack and the Doctor, stumbling wearily back into the square.

'Did you manage to walk all the way around the planet? Or just get lost _again_ ,' the Master bites, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'The generator is almost complete, no thanks to you.'

Jack casts his eyes around the square. Set up under the shade of a canopy, the brazier they had used yesterday is bubbling hot with water over some coals, the steam gently turning a lightweight wooden turbine. At its centre is a hollow wooden tube, the wire they'd moulded wound around it in tight coils.

The Doctor beams at them both, exhaustion forgotten as he spins the wheel and watches its spindle rotate inside the tube. 'Perfect! Bet they'll have never seen a Festival like this, this is just brilliant, Master. Oh, and Mark, of course.' He rummages through the basket of metal trinkets until he finds a long, thin knife blade, pulling his sonic screwdriver out of his jacket pocket and buzzing it against the surface.

Jack doesn't end up needing to ask what the Doctor is doing when the he lays the blade on the ground, and pulls its tip across the marble tile by the metal of his screwdriver. Mark grins and claps, but the Doctor is too eager to let him try out the magnet for himself, and ties it securely to the spindle within the tube.

'Now,' says the Doctor, pointing to the free end of the wire, 'I just need you to lick this.'

Mark looks between him and the wire like he's insane. 'Lick? '

Jack spares a glance at the Master, who looks at least half as exasperated as Jack feels, behind the derision.

'Yes!' the Doctor motions, poking out his tongue, 'You'll gehp a lihple hap!'

'Pardon me, for not having any idea what you mean, but what did you say?' Mark repeats.

The Doctor waves the wire about. 'A zap! Like, when you touch something and get shocked sometimes. Does that happen to you?'

Mark shrugs, and touches his tongue to the tip of the wire, jerking away with a yelp. 'It hurts!'

'A little,' admits the Doctor, 'But that's how we're going to make decorations for the Festival.'

Somewhat bewildered, Mark goes back to cutting his wood. 'I am very intrigued, but we will have to tell the people not to lick the wires.'

***

After the second sun has set, Jack finds himself in his room, wishing he'd brought a spare shirt. He's covered in dirt and metal grime and wood dust, and the scent still lingers long after having washed his face and arms. There are only a few minutes left before Aithera escorts them to the Royal banquet, which the Doctor has informed him repeatedly is a great honour, even if Aithera herself is too polite to say so.

A chilly breeze is drifting through the open window-arch and Jack shrugs on his coat, neatening the collar around his shirt, when he's interrupted by a brief knock on the door.

'Am I disturbing you?' asks Aithera, her dreadlocked hair neatly piled in a bun over her head. Her toga is a deep purple with silver threadwork, a gold-framed monocle still wedged over one eye.

'Not at all,' replies Jack, running a hand through his hair. 'Is the Doctor ready?'

Aithera shifts the heavy jewellery around her neck, matching it to the line of her sternum. 'I'm afraid they are already seated at the banquet, enjoying drinks.'

Jack hesitates. 'Are we late?'

'Late?' echoes Aithera. 'It would be rude for a guest to feel their arrival was unwelcome.'

She escorts him through the white halls, and down the stairs to an underground level Jack hasn't visited. Here, there are no windows, only candle-lit chandeliers that stretch across the ceilings like spiders' webs, and reflect light off Aithera's jewellery and hair ornaments. The walls are painted with the same designs bordering the Doctor's scrolls, draped in rich fabrics that look somewhere between cotton and wool.

The door to the banquet hall is made of thick, coloured glass, swirled through with flecks of gold and silver. Jack's eyes fixate on it long before Aithera directs him to the double-doors and holds one open for him to pass through.

The first thing Jack comprehends is the _size_ of it, the room so massive and cavernous it must span underneath the entire palace. The roof seems to sparkle in threads of light where those same chandeliers cast a deep glow downwards, over a vast rectangular arrangement of tables that line the edges of the walls. In the hollow centre of the tables is a deep pit; servants carry glasses and platters along thin catwalks elevated around its edges to the level of the tables. Various nobles in colourful dress dance and talk down below, the hall rumbling with chatter and upbeat music from a cluster of people with instruments in one corner.

Jack twists around, totally lost, but Aithera gently touches his arm and leads him around a second set of thin ledges along the wall, behind the tables. She takes him halfway down the hall, attracting stares from the nobles they pass, until Jack finally spots a broad, richly-decorated canopy. He squints a little, and can make out the King, laughing deeply from his spot in the centre of the canopy, his deep violet skin distinguishing him from the others crowded beside him.

As they approach, he waves them over and greets them enthusiastically, pulling out two chairs, himself. The Doctor and the Master are already seated, the Master drumming his fingers idly against the table and the Doctor engaged in animated conversation with the nearest Uthestran. Aithera takes the seat by the King's side, and Jack, hesitant to sit wedged between the royalty and the Master, stands awkwardly beside the Doctor until he motions for the Master to move up. The Master, rolling his eyes, obliges.

Jack goes for the nearest glass - really, more of a glass goblet - and drains it. The liquid burns his throat with a strange, metallic taste, and he hopes it isn't toxic to humans, but he's discovered that dying is a surprisingly effective way to avoid a nightmarish hangover.

'Jack!' exclaims the Doctor, grabbing his hand to give to the nearest Uthestran, 'This is Georna, say hello.'

'Captain Jack Harkness,' Jack says smoothly, shaking the woman's hand firmly. 'It's a pleasure to meet you.'

'Are you an alien too?' says Georna, 'From very far away? I didn't know that aliens were real, I'm afraid to have been so rude to you.'

The Doctor scoffs, sipping his glass and pulling a face. Jack gets the feeling it's not the first time he's forgotten he doesn't like it. 'Come on, what's a few superstitions between friends? Jack doesn't mind, do you, Jack?'

'Nope,' Jack says lightly, 'I'm from Earth, it's a human planet. I hear all the time how nice it is to visit here, but don't you see any visitors?'

Georna eyes off a waiter, quickly adding, 'No, only my sisters or children, and sometimes the Royal guards. Can I tell them about you?'

Jack grins, 'Sure. But make sure to mention how incredibly handsome the human was.'

' _Jack_ ,' the Doctor warns, but Georna laughs raucously.

'Captain, you're _pink_ ,' she says, 'Forgive me! Of course, you are still more handsome than my brother.'

'No offence taken, don't worry,' Jack dismisses. 'What sort of things pass for food on your planet? You're going to have to forgive _me_ , I'm not really a fan of the mould soup.'

Georna blushes. 'I'll have to inform the King's service immediately. Of course, we have many other dishes, like spiced root. They don't grow in the mountains, so I am looking forward to tasting them again.'

A man taps her on the shoulder, and Georna apologises and turns away. Jack turns to the Doctor, who again is sniffing at his drink.

'Who are these people?' Jack asks, gesturing around. 'They don't really seem like aristocrats.'

'Most of them aren't,' says the Doctor, 'Isn't it fantastic? Once a year, the King invites every person he's met over the past year to the Royal banquet. It's said that every Uthestran gets to go at least once, to get the King's blessing. There's going to be a marriage, later tonight, you know.'

'I hope we don't have to give speeches,' Jack says, and casts his eye down on all the Uthestrans, dressed in finery.

The Doctor reaches for his glass again, and Jack throws him a look. 'Are you sure that stuff is safe?'

'Well,' says the Doctor, 'I've been told it's not very alcoholic, but it gives you a stomach ache if you have too much of it. It's fruit juice.'

'Juice,' echoes Jack. He leans back, craning his head to the King, who is engaged in hushed discussion with one of his heads of staff. Jack can see the Master eyeing them both with scrutiny and tries not to think about it.

A bell tolls, and abruptly the commotion halts and the hall is silent. To Jack's left, the King pushes his chair out, the scrape echoing through the hall, and begins to make a speech.

'Greetings, to each and every one of my fellows, who together make both your Royal Family, village, and world proud. It is my honour to invite you all to eat, drink, and enjoy the luxury to which you continue to so kindly bestow upon myself and my kin.

'I would like to invite special honour upon guests from another world; these travellers have come to write the history of our fine people, and are deserving of every blessing which you would show your King.'

Nervous chatter echoes around the room, and then Jack watches in awe as the entire body of people salute as one.

'This year, we have been blessed by the Five Winds, with harvests fit to keep us for three or more years, and the births of many new kin; whose names I would be privileged to share with you all…'

It is some time before the King, voice somewhat hoarse, sits down at last, and food is served. Jack and the Doctor both watch as servants file up the stairs and along the ledges, placing platters and trays of food in front of each guest, before filling up their own plates and sitting to eat.

The food seems to be a combination of peculiar salads and red, potato-like vegetables, and a few dishes that look suspiciously like insects. The Doctor eats and drinks avidly, but Jack only picks at the food, his eyes fixed on the Master's arm slipping around Aithera's waist and the number of people in the room with no idea of the danger they're in.

He and the Doctor chat with Georna, who talks about her village, which harvests many of the insects used to flavour the dishes, until a family member catches her eye and she excuses herself. Their area of the table suddenly quiet, the Doctor turns his attention to the King, who salutes to a young male and leads her to Aithera.

'Aithan!' she exclaims, embracing him, 'I had no idea you were invited to the banquet, for this year. How have you been - how are your children, and your village?'

'Much worse off for being apart from you,' he responds, brushing a lock of hair from her face. 'Your dress is stunning, as usual. Mother is well, and so is Vestri and the boys.'

The Master nods, and salutes to him. 'We are honoured to meet you.'

'Ah, yes, as am I,' says Aithan, hurriedly, 'I'm afraid that I am here in official capacity, Aithera, your Majesty. I come with news from the Third Village, of the North.'

'Take my seat,' offers the Master, standing and pulling out the chair for him to sit. He glares at the Doctor and Jack, and sighing, Jack moves back down to Georna's place.

The King rests a hand around his shoulders. 'Please, have no hesitations. What news do you have?'

Aithan lowers his voice, so that Jack has to strain to understand him. 'Do you know Jareth, the student who was brought to you last moon?'

The King's eyebrows furrow. 'I am sure I have heard of him.'

'He is the son of Alima, the weaver whose family serves your court. She is honoured to have him undertaking study in the Palace, but requests compensation, as her looms and children need tending. She says that without Jareth, it is impossible to support her family.'

Aithera looks to the King. 'I am sure that we can arrange something, Father?'

'Of course,' the King agrees. 'What does she desire?'

'Grain,' says Aithan, 'Alima says that if she could not think about harvest during the year, it would help immensely.'

'Then she may have grain,' says the King. 'Does that put you at ease?'

Glancing about the room, Aithan leans in closer. 'But the other villagers are upset, that they must produce grain to give to the Palace, and Alima may have it without any work.'

'I can hardly give grain to the entire Third Village, before I know of the next year's harvest,' says the King, paying closer attention now.

'It is worse than that, your Majesty. Alima has been to other villages, seeking help, and many have found solidarity with her story. They all wish for recompense, or the opportunity for their kin to study from home.'

'I agree that a person's family should be at their home, but I have no way to nurture their skills from all corners of the planet, Aithan,' the King murmurs. 'Without our crafts and goods, I cannot always guarantee being able to purchase enough food from abroad, or medicines for the sick. I have to insist that those with skills stay here, to provide for their peoples.'

'Of course, I agree,' says Aithan. 'But I fear treason; I have heard that some wish to come take back their kin by force.'

'Force?' says Aithera, 'That's ridiculous. I know of no Uthestran who would want to hurt their King.'

'There are some,' Aithan continues, 'who see the wonders within the Palace and wonder why, if all are equal, they cannot share in it.'

Exhaling harshly, the King says, 'But they do, I share of myself, and of everybody's wealth daily, so that all are happy.'

Aithera presses her hand against the King's shoulder. 'Father, this is what I have been saying. We _must_ let the people have trade, and learning - let me speak to them, so they know there is a voice for them here. And then there will be no need for any force.'

'Sister, you have always been outspoken,' Aithan laughs. 'You are still yet to learn to speak a little...quieter. Please, let his Majesty decide.'

'But Father,' Aithera insists, but is silenced by the King's hand.

'I think we should ask the historians - learned men, who have seen kingdoms greater than ours rise and fall over millenia. My esteemed guests, what should be done for my people?' the King asks, waving his hand down the table to where Jack and the Doctor are seated.

The Master raises an eyebrow. 'Rulers last only as long as the people are content to be ruled. I suggest you make them content, or too afraid to act otherwise. And if you can't manage either of those, let somebody else do it. If you'll excuse me, I'd hate to impinge on your honour by eavesdropping.'

He leaves, abruptly, leaving the Doctor to apologise profusely. 'Sorry, he doesn't mean to be rude, I think the drinks have gone to his head.'

The King stares deeply at him, prompting the Doctor to continue, 'I've been around quite a few disturbers of the peace in my time, and been one on plenty of those occasions. I think I'm the man for your job.'

There is a brief pause, Aithera, the King, and Aithan looking between each other and at the Doctor once more. The King is the first to speak, with a gentle, 'We would be honoured to receive your help.'

Though his tone is soft, the note of authority is enough to make Aithan nod, though Jack can tell he has little respect for the off-worlders. Aithera, on the other hand, Jack is sure is keeping silent only out of defiance.

The King invites the Doctor closer in, gesturing to Aithera to give him her seat. Glancing between both her brother and the King, she stands up stiffly, and leaves without a further word.

Eager to keep the mood neutral, Jack gets to his feet and nudges the Doctor along, until they've found their original places and Aithan is seated by the King's side.

'I can hardly believe that violence is on the minds of the Northern Villages,' the King mutters, twisting his beard between his fingers. 'What evidence have you, beyond the muttering of a few widows and widowers?'

'Only that Alima regularly speaks in front of large numbers of people, and some of them suggest forceful protest,' sighs Aithan. 'At the very least, only the North is involved so far.'

The King shakes his head. 'I won't abandon any of our people. Could she be reasoned with, if these protesters look to her as a leader?'

At this, Aithan looks away. 'Not since the death of her husband. She has thrown her grief into this protest.'

The King stares at him, a penetrating gaze that makes Jack uneasy. Years of con-work have made him particularly sensitive to the way a person looks when they have something to hide.

The Doctor makes a small noise, briefly gulping from his glass. 'Maybe you should tell the Uthestrans exactly what you told me. You need their work so you can share everything around equally, and they have to support you if they want help when there's a famine, or some kind of plague.' He darts a look at Jack, then adds, 'Do you really get many plagues?'

'And what if they were to say no?' says the King, leaning closer. 'I would exile them from our Kingdom?'

'Maybe just the ones who say no,' says the Doctor. 'Actually, I think you should ask all of them at once. And do whatever the most people want.'

The King rubs his chin through his beard in thought. 'If Aithan is truthful, and only the Villages of the North are considering protest, this may work. What would stop the protesters from attacking if the result is not in their favour?'

The Doctor fixes him with the look Jack recognises as the one he once gave him; the offering of a second chance. 'Do you really think your people would fight each other, as well as the Royal Family?'

Aithan shakes his head. 'No. Alima would never condone it.'

Jack hesitates. 'And what about later on? If the movement spreads and they want another vote, but this time everyone wants to change it?'

'Then I have failed as their King, and I ought to turn myself to their leaders for trial,' he sighs. 'I think this settles the matter; before the Festival of the Winds, when all peoples are gathered, I will put forth the proposal.'

Jack takes another sip of his drink. 'Congratulations, Doctor. Another world saved.'

'All in a day's work,' agrees the Doctor, 'It's my honour, your Majesty. Mind excusing us? I'd like to take a look around.'

'Of course,' says the King.

Jack looks up at him, the Doctor's hand offered this time to help him out of his chair. Their eyes meeting a brief, crackling moment, Jack clasps his fingers and follows him around the catwalks to one of the staircases leading down to the central pit.

'Phew,' sighs the Doctor, grinning with exhilaration just the same, 'I really hate politics. And whatever that juice is, is it pears, Jack? I hate pears.'

Not quite sure how to handle this Doctor, when Jack was starting to wonder if he was gone too, if the little glimpses were just as futile and meaningless as after _his_ Doctor had died, Jack grins back and follows him down the stairs.

'Drinks table!' the Doctor exclaims, dragging Jack by the coat. 'Come on, and we can dance with the townsfolk later.' He leads him through flurries of coloured fabric and thick throngs of chatter, until they reach a little dugout in the wall with another long table sporting bowls of liquid and neat trays of goblets.

The light is a little dimmer here, and the Doctor has to squint at each of the drinks to make them out. 'This one smells good. I think.'

'Doctor,' Jack starts, suddenly nervous for reasons he can't quite put his finger on, 'Thanks. I mean, the trip. I've missed it.'

'Me too,' the Doctor admits, like the very idea of it has taken him by surprise. 'You know, I think you were what was missing. To fix this.'

Jack's hand is shaking as he fills his mug. 'Fix what, Doctor?'

'Him. Me. All of it. You've been there all along. I didn't know what to do with you, but...whatever you did, I think it's going to get better now,' the Doctor pauses, setting his drink down to look at Jack more closely. 'He hasn't--it's been, well, how it used to be.'

Jack thinks this time, he might even believe him. He wants to believe in this, in the Doctor's happiness, that there might be an answer after all.

And then the Doctor's lips press onto his, cool and gentle and soft, and the mug goes clattering to the floor. And it's worth it, Jack thinks, _this_ is worth everything. Anything. He kisses back, hesitant and enquiring at first because it's got to be some kind of mistake, but the Doctor's tongue traces the place where their lips touch and Jack just wishes he could go back in time to the Game Station, tell himself _this is what you are waiting for, this_. He can't hold himself back and kisses with all the hunger, the loneliness, the admiration for this stupid alien who's broken his heart a hundred times, who he's killed and died for and who he'd do it for all over again if this kiss could just never stop.

It does, eventually, when Jack runs out of air and his lips are tingling and swollen, and the Doctor's gleam faintly wet in the half-life. He looks so beautiful like this, undone, that Jack starts to kiss him again. The Doctor's fingers find his back, and gently ease them apart. 'We should be getting back. Not sure the King's really used to this democracy business.'

Jack's laugh comes more easily than it has in centuries. 'Shame your Time Lord friends aren't around to be proud of you.'

The Doctor shivers, 'Say that one more time, and I'm never getting drinks with you in a dimly-lit cavern ever again.' And he laughs, too.

 


	9. III: Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peaceful Uthestra Minor becomes the subject of a murder and a rebellion. Bad enough trying to romance your two-hundred-year-crush in the middle of it, without having to face off the evil ex-boyfriend as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! Omg, it's not as bad as last time but I am reaaaallly sorry for the length of time between these updates. I wanted to get up to the next big plot point before I posted and the story just kept groowing and growing...this one's a bit plot-heavy which I hope isn't so bad, I promise it's going to be worth it. Thank you everyone for all your support, I love being able to share the love (perversion?) around. Next time we're heading back into E-rating territory, sooo, if there's anything you'd particularly love to see pop it in the comments and if writers block strikes, I'll see what I can do about working it in. Grab some popcorn and settle in my lovelies!

Jack staggers back to his room, stupendously drunk. He and the Doctor had managed to find something both stronger and kinder to the palate, and downed a good half-bowl of the stuff between them. Of course, the Doctor hadn't disclosed the particular fact of how a Time Lord metabolism means getting drunk is effectively impossible without _choosing_ to be until Jack was already leaning on him for balance.

A particular fact which Jack was now sorely regretting, lips still tingling warm and swollen but little memory of whether or not there were more kisses to be held responsible for the sensation. The first, however, is seared so deeply into his memory Jack thinks not a million years of death after death would ever bury it. He relives that moment, over and over until the after-images of sensation, the intensity of the feeling are so bright and clear in his heart, nothing can blur them.

Funny, then, how quickly the feeling scampers out of his mind like cockroaches in the light, when he reaches the door to his shared room and hears Aithera crying on the other side.

He hears a noncommittal _hmm_ which can only belong to the Master, and unable to decide whether he should break down the door or call for the Doctor, he silently withdraws his gun and levels it at chest height instead. It strikes him that not everybody regenerates or comes back from the dead.

Their voices are too soft to make out, and getting the strange feeling he isn't going to like what he's about to hear, Jack presses his ear to the door. The gun barrel he leaves flush against the wood, his finger sliding gently over the trigger.

 _'I can't do this, I-I have to be sure.'_ Aithera's voice, softer than Jack is used to hearing it.

_'You really need more proof? Sooner or later, you're going to have to pick a side.'_

_'How? On either side lies betrayal; of my family, my people.'_

He could stop them, Jack thinks. He could barge in and find some way to stop this plan, and the Doctor would never know. _But isn't that just what he wants you to do?_

 _'Ah, and on which side are you betraying_ yourself _? Until tonight you were very clear where you stood.'_

_'Until tonight, I'd never been asked to...forgive me, I can't even bear to say it. There must be some other way.'_

_'Then speak to the King. Convince him. Your people need to know that they can trust you.'_

Aithera laughs dejectedly. _'He will listen to not a single word I say. He thinks I am a child. I just can't see how I have not already proven my worth.'_

_'You aren't of any worth until you show them that when things get dicey, it won't be their heads on the chopping block.'_

_'Is this in your history books? Do you read of the great Uthestran Revolution, of the liberation of the people? I feel if only I were sure it was necessary, I could do it.'_

_'My dear Aithera, when I said I was a historian, I hardly meant sitting around reading some dusty old myths and guessing what the scribe was smoking. A Lord of Time knows everything that ever was, is, could be, of every person and every planet. My people_ write _history.'_

Jack doesn't know whether to roll his eyes or laugh.

_'And my place? What am I to do, to ensure the good of my family and my people.'_

_'Exactly what you've already been doing. Let me meet with the artisan instead, I imagine it will only take half an hour.'_

Jack sits through a strained silence. _'Why? Why would you help me like this?'_

_'Because when I look at what you could be, I see greatness. And I pride myself in keeping good company.'_

Jack's gun-hand slips, the barrel striking the doorway with a resounding _thunk_. Position given away, he shoves the pistol back in his waistband and stumbles through the door, feigning a yawn.

The Master, sitting propped up on his bed, scowls furiously and shoots Jack a look nothing short of venomous.

'Captain,' says Aithera, her voice carefully composed once more. 'I was only just thinking of you!'

'I know, I know, it's hard to get such a handsome face out of your head,' Jack grins, and flops back onto his mat. Resisting a laugh, he pulls his blanket around his ears and gets settled. ''Night all.' 

Somehow, sleep that night comes both suddenly and thoroughly.

***

Jack wakes well after the others, rolling over to find the room empty and the first sun gently warming one side of his body. He yawns lazily, the memories of the Doctor's lips drifting back and making him start when he realises _it really happened_.

He throws the blanket away, shrugging on his coat and grabbing at his hair until it settles against his head and bolts across to the Doctor's room.

Jack knocks firmly. 'Doctor?'

'Come in,' calls the Doctor's voice, and Jack swings the door inwards to see him scribbling on a scrap of paper.

Jack grins widely, sitting himself beside the Doctor and resting an arm around his shoulders. 'What's the plan for today?'

Chewing on the end of his pencil, the Doctor mutters, 'Finishing the decorations. The Festival starts at second sunset tomorrow, and we still need some sort of wiring system. And fireworks. You can't have a festival without fireworks.'

Almost daring himself, Jack asks, 'Where's the Master?'

'No idea,' the Doctor replies cheerfully, 'Hopefully helping.'

Jack has a nagging suspicion that leaving the other Time Lord to his own devices isn't wise, but doesn't voice it. Instead he gathers his courage and plants a kiss on the side of the Doctor's head.

Heart thumping, he feels the Doctor's back stiffen under his touch and then relax. Holding his breath, Jack plasters a smile across his face and leans around to catch the Doctor's gaze. The clean, warm smell of the Doctor's hair still lingers in his throat.

'Um,' he says, mouth stuttering over half-formed words, 'Jack.'

'Hmm?' Jack prompts, pretending to lean over and read the Doctor's notes. Just a little _too_ close to be ignored.

Suddenly avoiding eye contact, the Doctor jumps up and scrunches the paper into one of his jacket pockets. 'Fireworks! Bits of metal and mineral and explosives. Did you think to bring any matches?'

Shaking his head, Jack puts the idea of another kiss on the backburner and rummages through his coat. 'Nope. Have they invented them here yet?'

There's another knock on the door, and the Doctor and Jack both share a raise of eyebrows before the Doctor goes to answer it. It's not who Jack's expecting; two soldiers, fully armed with energy weapons block the doorway and order them both to follow.

'What's going on?' Jack asks cautiously, one soldier's hand laid suggestively on his upper arm. There's no reply, but Jack notices the Doctor being held similarly beside him.

They're led downstairs, straight to the King's throne, where a small band of soldiers and guards have the entrance covered. Inside, the King consults with both members of his consul and other residents of the Palace Jack can't place; some angry, some ashen-faced.

'I think there's been just a _little_ mistake,' the Doctor begins, his words a little too quick and high-pitched, 'We've been asleep since last night, or, well I didn't sleep, but I wasn't--we weren't--well.'

Jack nudges him a little, but keeps quiet. He can't see the Master anywhere.

The King approaches and salutes to them. 'There has been a great crime against our people. Epruth of the South Forest was found today, dead in his rooms, only just below where you were sleeping. This is no accident, for I have already received demands from the Northern Villages to either release their people from the Palace, or face greater losses.'

Jack watches the Doctor's face grow hard. 'When? Does anybody know?'

One distraught man speaks from the throng of people. 'I was the last to accompany him to his rooms. There were no signs of illness, nothing to...forgive me, I know nothing else.'

'This man is his brother, Epesh,' the King explains solemnly. 'It is for him I must ask; have you anything to do with or any knowledge to share of this? You can offend nobody here to say what you have heard or seen.'

'Nothing,' says Jack, looking to the Doctor who nods in agreement. 'I was too busy with the banquet, I didn't notice anything.'

Chewing his lip, the Doctor speaks suddenly. 'Let me help. Show me his body, I need to see. Did anybody have access to his room?'

The King looks at his advisors. 'Access? We all are free to visit, as we wish. Any help in preventing more tragedy is welcome here, but it is for Epesh to say if you may see his brother.'

'Can otherworlders really be trusted? At such a time?' Epesh says quietly, his voice low. His eyes are still wet, his face thick with anguish.

'I believe they can,' says the King, 'I have no reason to believe any wrong of them.'

'Then find the one who is responsible for this,' he says, eyes still on only the King. 'And have them exiled, alone, where they may understand the pain to never speak with or see their family again.'

As they walk through the corridors, Jack grips the Doctor's hand. He steels himself for the body of the man, but they find him slumped over a wooden desk, so peacefully still he could be asleep.

The Doctor closes his eyes for a moment, and scans him with the sonic. The two guards watch him with suspicion, Jack wary of the way their hands stay pressed against their weapons. 'Nothing. No gunshots, no broken bones.' He picks up a small wooden mug, dipping his finger into the dregs of liquid at the bottom and licking it thoughtfully. 'Plain water. Calcium, magnesium, iron, phosphates. No poison. Unless, of course, he was given something at the banquet.'

'Impossible,' says Epesh, out of sight in the corridor where he refuses to enter the room. 'We shared our meals, our drinks. The first night I see my brother in twenty years, and you think it of me to leave his side?'

'Right,' calls the Doctor. He parts the man's lips with a finger, peering through his glasses at his mouth. 'Blue. Well, bluer than usual.' He does the same to his eyes, but Jack can't make out any marks or discolouration. His expression darkening, the Doctor feels around his neck, waving the sonic over the skin there.

'What is it?' says Jack, 'Do you think somebody choked him?'

'And nobody was in or out of here since last night, when you walked him here?' the Doctor calls, his eyes dark.

'Only his morning meetings,' Epesh says, 'After which I brought him here, I saw him take his seat at that desk, and I…I asked him if he would like hot or cold soup for lunch, and left to prepare it. I thought him asleep.' He takes a shaky breath. 'But no matter how I shook him he did not wake.'

'See, it's funny you say that. Because everything about this man tells me he was asphyxiated, but there are no bruises around his mouth, no marks around his neck. There's no burst vessels in his eyes or his face. If I didn't know better, I'd say he held his breath until he died,' the Doctor growls. 'I want to know everybody he saw in the morning. And until I find some evidence that one of them had a good reason to do this, and I really hope I do, I want you arrested.' He folds his glasses and slides them into his pocket, turning to the guards. 'And you'll do me the honours, if you want the person that did this.'

'Doctor,' Jack says, exasperated, 'Do you really think, I mean, let's not jump to conclusions, alright?'

'Arrested,' the Doctor repeats. 'Get me everybody who saw him between last night and today.'

The guards obey, and Epesh gives them no resistance. Glaring daggers at the Doctor, he mutters, 'There is no punishment in this world worse than that I have already received.'

'Doctor,' Jack says after they've left, grimacing at the body behind him, 'I think you're making a mistake here.'

Lips pressed into a pencil-line, the Doctor shakes his head. 'Who else? Twenty years is a long time for you humanoids.'

'Us?' echoes Jack, 'And what about _him_? Hundreds of years of peace you said, and you bring a mass-murdering psychopath to this place and when someone dies, you blame the poor guy's _brother_?'

The Doctor looks suddenly, viciously hurt. 'And who are _you_ blaming, Jack? Me?'

And then Jack finds himself alone, the Doctor's footsteps echoing down the corridor and the dead man stiffening, cold in his chair.

Jack runs his hand through his hair, looking back towards the Doctor's room before he heads to the staircase instead. The Doctor's angry, yes, maybe even afraid. He needs somebody to be strong for the both of them.

He marches down the stairs, boots echoing in quick time across the marble floors of the antechamber. The guards let him leave peacefully, warm air gusting uncomfortably across Jack's face as he steps into the sunlight.

Jack arrives at the square in almost no time; the route not only by now well-practiced, but the marketplace almost empty, the stalls closed. He wonders if the town is in mourning, or simply busy for tomorrow's Festival. Half-surprised, half-disappointed, Jack spots the Master reaching up on his toes with a nail pressed between his lips trying to fix some wiring to the wooden scaffolds.

'Make yourself useful, Freak, and pass me a hammer,' the Master orders, without even turning around. Teeth settling firmly against each other, Jack notices Mark's toolbox at his feet and finds something appropriately heavy and stone-headed.

The Master's eyes follow him as he hands it up, arm outstretched. Holding the nail in place with one hand, the other reaches delicately around the wooden shaft, fingers bare millimetres from Jack's own skin. He can feel the cool of the Master's body; repulsive, like a corpse. Their eyes meet, one prolonged, pinpoint moment - an image flashes into Jack's head of those thin spikes of metal, piercing through the nailbeds of his fingertips and impaling them onto the wood beneath, blood pooling thick - and Jack whips his hand away.

Raising an eyebrow, the Master drives the nail into the framework with a single strike, and winds the wire around its extruding shaft.

'They found a body this morning,' Jack growls, fingers curling at his side. 'In the Palace.'

' _Heavens_ , no,' the Master says, flatly, 'Trouble? The Doctor? I'd never have imagined it.'

Frustrated, Jack spits back, 'Yeah, well, he isn't falling for it, and neither am I.'

Unfazed, the Master drops his tools and calls, 'Markhai? Have you heard?'

The craftsman pops his head up from across the square, adjusting his toga and trotting closer. 'Heard? Hold on, let me come closer.'

Hand resting on the pistol in his belt, Jack says, 'Eprush died sometime this morning, I dunno if you knew him, but I'm really sorry. He didn't deserve it.'

Mark's face drops, suddenly. Jack feels a stab at his heart, and then he realises - it isn't sadness on his features, it's _fear_. 'This morning? Are you certain? Does Epesh know?' His voice has gone high; strained.

'Yeah,' Jack says, simply. 'Do you know anything that could help figure out how it happened?'

'No,' Mark says, 'No, I...please, forgive me, I have to return to the Palace. The decorations will be done.' He swings his toga over his shoulder, turning to leave with no further announcement.

'Wait!' Jack yelps, grabbing his shoulder, 'Hold on, I'll come with you. Did you see him last night?'

Eyes fixed firmly on the ground, Mark says quietly, 'I saw him two hours ago. I will not believe he is dead.'

Jack looks between the two; Mark at a brisk walk out of the square, the Master pulling an intrigued face better suited to a pantomime, and feels his insides twist. He knows he should keep watch, keep an eye on the other Time Lord, but the thought of spending any length of time with the Master and nobody within hearing distance makes his blood go cold in his veins. He doesn't look back.

Jack catches up to Mark, slowing to a trot beside him. His words feel utterly useless, but all the same he sighs another, 'I'm so sorry.'

Mark shakes his head. 'I won't believe it. I spoke with him, I greeted him at last night's banquet. How can you say that he is gone? He had no illness, he wouldn't hide his sickness.'

Glancing around, Jack lowers his voice. 'I shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but Mark, it wasn't an accident. Somebody killed him. The Doctor's sure of it.'

Mark spins to face him, jaw slack with total shock. 'Murder? How dare you--even, even to _suggest_ \--'

Resting his hands on Mark's shoulders, Jack pulls him to a halt and meets his gaze. 'I would never, ever say anything like that if it wasn't true. Please, you have to believe me. It's not a trick.'

Lip trembling, Mark's eyes begin to water. 'Please, forgive me, I-I never thought I would see such a day, as long as I lived, to see a friend... _murdered_.' His mouth twists in disgust as he shapes the word.

'I feel like it's all my fault,' Jack confesses, 'I never should have let us come here, I knew he would…'

Mark steels his features and grips Jack's hand, firmly, where it rests on his shoulder. 'I beg you, if there is anybody who you suspect of this crime, do not leave me in silence. I would never ask it of you, but I cannot walk into the Palace and shake hands with the one that did this.'

'The Master,' Jack whispers, 'I swear, if you know _anything_ , you have to tell the Doctor--'

Mark shrugs his hand away, brow furrowing. 'I cannot believe it of you, or of him. Your friend, he came with me to visit Eprush--we spoke of the Festival, of...his students, art.' He draws in breath, sharply, and composes himself. 'I know, none of it matters now. But whatever you suspect of him, you are mistaken, on my honour.'

'Wait,' Jack says, 'You both went to see him this morning? Together?'

'Yes, to discuss arrangements for the Festival,' Mark agrees.

'And he didn't do anything? Didn't touch him, didn't touch his drink,' Jack prods, voice gaining speed.

Mark shakes his head. 'Words were all we exchanged, I don't understand what you mean.'

'Come on,' Jack says, 'We have to find the Doctor.'

***

They interrupt the Doctor in the main hall, interrogating two other Uthestrans who look as distraught as Mark does. Jack gives him a pointed look, the Doctor faltering and losing his train of thought and finally excusing himself. He jogs to the doors where Jack pulls him outside, the nearby guards casting their eye over the three of them.

'Mark and the Master visited him this morning,' Jack says quietly, 'Two hours ago. Right before he died.'

The Doctor squints through his glasses, looking Mark up and down. 'Why? What did you see, did you notice _anything_ at all?'

Voice a little hoarse, Mark says, 'Nothing. We discussed decorations - we were to see some of the kites his students have made, fabrics, many beautiful creations of our people. I saw nothing, nothing that would...please, I must see him. I won't believe it until I see him.'

'I'm so sorry, I can't let you just yet,' murmurs the Doctor. 'Tell me more about why you were there. Can you think of any reason why somebody might have done this? Anybody who didn't like him?'

'Eprush is one of the most honoured members of the Royal Palace. His guidance has been like a mother to our craftsmen, our artisans; so many of our children have studied beside him. Many will be devastated,' Mark says solemnly.

'So, when people come here for their talents - people from other villages - they study under him? He takes care of them, you mean?' the Doctor repeats, pausing as he pushes his glasses further up his nose.

Jack suddenly understands what the Doctor means. 'The kids the rebels are complaining about?'

Mark nods. 'He was mother to many young citizens.'

The Doctor gives Jack a look, who nods in return. 'Think about it. Who better to target?'

'Please,' Jack asks sincerely, 'I know _he_ 's got something to do with this.'

The Doctor is quiet a little time, his deep brown eyes hardening, working over the problem in his head. 'Mark, I'd like you to come see the body with us.'

Mark barely says a word as they climb the staircase, face set in stony determination. He opens the door to Eprush's chambers, freezing as he sees the body, dark blood beginning to pool at the bottoms of its wooden limbs. Eyes shining, he shakes his head, unable to look away.

'I'm sorry,' repeats the Doctor, resting a hand between Mark's shoulder blades. 'Can you tell me exactly what you both said?'

Bewildered, Mark keeps staring at the body. 'I talked about kites, his students' works that he might wish to display--we, we decided on...for the festival. Your companion is innocent; he said nothing, he did nothing.'

'Not a word?' repeats the Doctor, eyes darkening. 'Isn't Eprush very well respected in the Palace, like...like a member of the Royal Family?'

'He was every bit a member of our family as the King himself,' agrees Mark, palm hovering over his mouth.

Resting his other hand on Mark's shoulder, the Doctor inserts himself into his line of sight and leans down to meet his eyes. 'And he didn't make comments, or chat, or, I don't know, brag?'

Jack looks to the Doctor, his heart racing, pleading for the Doctor to _finally_ see what he's known all along.

Biting his lip, the Doctor edges over to Eprush's silent corpse, and presses two fingers to his temple. 'Be quiet just a minute. Both of you.'

Nails digging into his palms, Jack does. Time stretches, drags, measured like seconds by the machine-fire pulse of his heart.

It's to him the Doctor is speaking, when he says, 'I can feel him.'

Tears spring to Jack's eyes and he fights the surge of emotion down, instead wheeling Markhai out the door with a muttered excuse. He swallows hard, past the constriction in his throat, and takes a breath. 'The Master?'

The Doctor collapses into the nearby chair, his shoulders crumpling. 'Yeah. Oh, Jack, how could I have--I'm so _stupid_ ,' he snarls, dragging his nails through his hair. 'Of course.'

Something hard and angry melts away in Jack's chest, like the hurt the Doctor kissed away. He crouches beside him, cradling the Doctor's jaw in his hand, pulling his face into his neck. 'You're not, you're not. I'm sorry. I'm still here.'

'I know,' moans the Doctor, his back stiffening but accepting the embrace all the same, 'I just--'

'Yeah,' finishes Jack, and pulls him into a tight hug. 'We'll make this right.'

Slender fingertips digging into his shoulder, the Doctor pulls away and meets his gaze resolutely. 'We will. I'm going to talk to him.'

Jack nods, 'Talk, yeah, okay.'

***

The Master is alone in the square as the Doctor and Jack approach, their fingers laced together hidden by the fall of the Doctor's coat. Bracing himself, Jack relinquishes his hand, fingering the grip of his pistol through his pocket.

The Doctor's stride quickens, his eyes black-dark. He grabs the Master's arm, where he has a hammer poised to strike the next nail into the wood, and stares him down. 'You did this.'

'Did what, Doctor?' bites the Master, narrowing his eyes with enough venom to bridge the height difference between them. 'Steal, from those who gave everything they had for nothing but honour? Strip power from anyone who might have wielded it, to keep in luxury the privileged few?'

'What?' the Doctor gapes, releasing the Master's wrist.

Snorting, the Master straightens his cufflinks. 'No, I didn't think so. You might even go so far as to thank me for the favour.'

'You _killed_ him,' spits the Doctor, suddenly remembering his fury, 'Don't you dare, don't you dare sit here and tell me it's supposed to be some sort of...of…'

'Liberation? All this time consorting with primitives, feasting, and you can't see the wood for trees, can you?' the Master says, his voice low, with some caricature of pity (Jack thinks he could probably vomit) nestled in his features.

'Don't listen to him,' says Jack, 'He's just trying to manipulate you, like he always does!'

' _Shut_ up, Freak, the grown-ups are talking,' the Master snaps, his teeth clicking.

The Doctor holds a hand up to silence both of them, taking a few steps away. 'Hold on. Hold on, are you telling me...that _you're_ a part of this terrorism business?'

'Terrorism? You really have been with those humans too long. Since when did you _ever_ consider freeing people terrorism, and really, you're hardly one to talk with all those regimes you overthrow, those _peaceful_ _I-don’t-like-them_ -archies, and just who do you think waltzes into those power vacuums you, in your infinite mercy, leave?' the Master pauses, drawing breath, only giving the Doctor the corner of his gaze. 'I killed him. And you would have done the same if you hadn't been too busy _flirting_ to listen.'

Jack can see the hurt hit the Doctor like a blow; the way he closes his eyes, his figure shrinks. Defeated.

'I don't believe you,' says the Doctor, 'And I won't until I can find proof. I hope, for your sake, that I find _something_. Come on, Jack.'

Trotting along behind him, Jack's mind whirrs with a hundred questions, fears, consolations. 'What does he mean? The rebels? I mean, of course, that's just like him to find some way to cause trouble, but…'

'I don't know,' admits the Doctor. 'I mean, I hate to say it, but I was surprised that he'd just up and do something like this.'

'I'm not,' mumbles Jack. 'He's lying, he's probably just trying to distract you long enough he can pull off something even worse.'

The Doctor looks straight ahead, the Palace almost in reach. 'No. I just, trust me, Jack, I know him. He believes in this, whether he's right or wrong about it.'

'Okay,' Jack begrudges him, 'Where do we start?'

'Eprush's things,' the Doctor says. 'I hope somebody's taken his body away, I'm sick of death.'

Smiling weakly, Jack says, 'Well, you know I'm not about to go anywhere.'

He's surprised when the Doctor returns the smile, fondly, and says 'I know.'

***

It's first sunset by the time the Doctor announces he's found something, Jack tired and sweaty and covered in dust from moving the furniture, searching through the drawers. Exhausted, half from exertion and half from worry, Jack picks his way over to where the Doctor sits cross-legged, examining a set of letters through his glasses.

'Look, read this one,' the Doctor says. 'And here as well - these are his inventory holdings.'

Jack takes the letter, squinting at the handwriting.

_...Eppah sends her love, and many thanks for the herbs and medicines which have cured both her ailment and that of young Orith. Next month in thanks, she has promised her first-born, who has talent with glassforging like you or I have never seen! He is in good health and eager to meet his King, and of course his Uncle Eprush, whom we all miss dearly. Your children are well, and Kaila seems to have your eye for goods and wares - she already has a collection of shells of her own which she bargains away for sweet treats at the village fair._

_To mention the village, the news is worse than we feared. Not even the King's own culturists and gardeners can grow from our soil; we have no explanation for this curse, no aid. No more grain is to be given to us this year and places have been arranged within the Forests, but I cannot bear to leave behind the land in which we used to play. Please, I beg you, convince the King. With the Festival of the Winds so close, I am certain that our offerings and sacrifices will appease the Winds of the Earth and give us our land again._

_We are all eternally grateful for your care; know that if ever your authority was doubted, the entire Forest would stand behind you for your deeds._

_Katha sends her first painting for you, I have tucked it in the back of the envelope…_

'So he's been bargaining with the King to help out his family, I don't see what's wrong with that,' says Jack, grabbing the next paper. 'I mean-- _oh_.'

 

 

 

> _SOLD GOODS                               #                                 PAYMENT_
> 
> _~~Woven baskets                           142                             1 wagons' grain (Eppah, Merran.)~~ _
> 
> _~~Glasswares                                   6                                weaponry, to Merran~~ _ ~~_(BEFORE NEW MOON)_~~
> 
> _Tapestry                                       3                                 - to King's holdings._
> 
> _Farming goods                           22                               - to Yanna_
> 
>  
> 
> _COMMISSIONS                        #                                   STUDENT_
> 
> _Woven baskets                         5                                     - to Berrin_
> 
> _Woven baskets                         5                                     - to Jeth_
> 
> _Woven baskets                       6                                     - to Thom_
> 
> _Woven baskets                       5                                     - to Thea_
> 
> _Tapestry                                   1                                     - to Aranatha_
> 
> _Woven baskets                       5                                     - to Yermis_
> 
> _Woven baskets                       3                                     - to Karan_
> 
> _Glass vase                               1                                     - to Aranatha_
> 
> _…_

 

Jack checks the entries, scanning over the page again and re-adding. 'He sold them. The things his students made, he sold it for stuff for his village. And then he goes around getting the others to work double so he fills his quota.'

'Mm,' agrees the Doctor. 'Some of it goes straight through to the King, but most of it he barters and sells like he made it himself. And then there's this,' he hands Jack another paper, 'look at the date on this one. And the next request here, I swear, they're asking for enough seeds and grain to feed the whole Forest.'

Frustrated, Jack glances over the paper and tosses it to his feet. 'So what? Okay, you've got one corrupt guy, but killing him isn't going to help anyone.'

'I spoke to all the staff, all the councillors, the guards, everyone,' insists the Doctor. 'And every one of them spoke about this guy like he was _royalty_. Now, don't ask me how he got away with it this long, but these records go back since he first started here forty years ago.'

'So what are you suggesting?' says Jack, rubbing his eyes, 'That the Master was right? That you would have done the same thing?'

'Well, no,' sighs the Doctor, pulling off his glasses. 'But maybe I was blind, Jack. Maybe the rebels have a point and this was the only way anybody was going to see it.'

Jack slaps his forehead, glaring at the Doctor with his jaw half-open. 'Oh, come on! So they _killed_ him? Listen to yourself, this place is _peaceful_ , couldn't they have just spoken to the King?'

Nodding, the Doctor gets to his feet and gently takes Jack's hand. 'No, no, you're right. So let's find out, let's speak to him.'

***

'I won't believe it,' repeats the King, for the fifth time, his purple cheeks beginning to darken with carefully-restrained anger. 'Eprush is family, as close as any family to me. You will not shame him while he rests in death.'

'Please, your Majesty, read the documents,' the Doctor insists. 'This is what your rebels are fighting over, you have to listen.'

Glancing over the writing again, the King hands the letters to an aide and shakes his head grimly. 'I see nothing here but disgrace, the disgrace of outsiders who know too little to respect our people. Eprush was loved and trusted, hand-picked by myself, and he has never given me reason for doubt. Any Uthestran who thinks ill of him has no welcome in my Kingdom.'

'Your Majesty--' the Doctor tries again, taking a deep breath, 'I really think you should--'

'Enough,' says the King. 'Guards, bar them from the throne room, unless there is some new emergency, until I have finished the arrangements for Eprush's family.'

The guards obey, dragging the Doctor to the doors even as he protests. 'Listen to me!' the Doctor yells, 'I swear, I wouldn't lie about this!'

Jack simply looks at him in sympathy, letting himself be manhandled outside, where the entrance hall is uncomfortably silent save for their breathing.

'What about Aithera?' Jack suggests, 'She's pretty close with the King, he might believe her.'

Peering through the crack in the doors, the Doctor sighs. 'Not without those letters. The ones he's throwing in the fireplace.'

Jack rests his hand on his back. 'I guess we have to go to the rebels. Stop this from getting any worse than it is, I'm worried this is going to be some sort of battle cry for them once word gets round.'

'Mmm,' agrees the Doctor. 'But first, I have to take care of the Master. Make sure this never, ever happens again.'

Tugging the Doctor to the exit, Jack nods to himself. 'Are you okay?'

'Oh, me? I'm always okay,' grins the Doctor, with surprising energy Jack knows he wouldn't have seen an hour ago. 'See, now we're all on the same page, and we've got a society to save.'

***

The square, when they return, is decorated in indescribable colour, beauty, and cheer. In the sunlight, the sheer fabrics and papers glow like lanterns, stretched over wooden frames into animals, the shapes of trees, rivers and plants. The stalls are completed, their canopies casting coloured light over the seating, arranged around the central region of the square where a huge mural hangs over the buildings, in front of the setting suns.

Markhai is solemnly tacking up the last of the fabrics and paintings, his skin shining with sweat. Jack can only imagine how hard he's worked to have everything up in half a day and remembers what it's like, to throw your grief, your anger into something tangible because you don't know what else to do with it. His heart aches for the pain they've caused here.

The Doctor summons the Master over to a corner, where he speaks soft and low. 'You could have told me, you know. About the corruption. You didn't have to just spring this on me.'

'It's alright, Doctor, I forgive you all those nasty accusations. You've been terribly preoccupied these past few days, you know,' the Master sighs, voice smooth and cold as cream.

'And I'm sorry for that, but I never said you did the right thing,' the Doctor points out, frowning. 'I know why you did it. But killing like this is _wrong_ , you have to tell me, you _know_ we always find a way together.'

His hackles rising, Jack forces his glare to the ground between his feet. _Why does the Doctor always give in so_ easily _to him?_

The Master pauses, sighs. 'You know, you'd rather like her, Aithera. She's clever, and she cares about all these stupid primitives, just your type, I know. So I listened to her, and I did what you would do; I helped her. I won't apologise for that, Doctor.'

The Doctor drags his hand over his face, sitting down onto a nearby barrel. 'I understand. Just, please. Can you promise me? Help me fix this. These people can get what they want without... _fighting_. Please, I thought I'd lost you again.'

'Doctor--' Jack starts, shaking his head in disbelief, 'I-'

'I'm sorry,' the Master interrupts, 'I swear, you haven't.'

Jack looks back between the both of them, the pair gone silent and probably chatting in their heads instead, unable to decide who he's the most angry with. And then he sees the way the Doctor's eyes soften, his brow unfurrows, the hurt bleeds off his face and remembers how that feels.

He can forgive the Doctor, who's the last of his race, whose eyes go bright and full when Jack imagines the Master's mind touches his, but he won't forgive _him_. Instead, he clears his throat, and says, 'Which way to the Northern Villages?'

The link between them snapping abruptly like a thread, the Master fires back, 'Oh, yes, of course, consult with the rebels. Get us all arrested, you know, I'd really hoped you'd grown out of that approach.'

'We won't be arrested,' points out the Doctor, 'We're _esteemed guests_. And I spoke with the King last night, he wanted me to go talk to them. Just because you had to go and send everybody into a panic doesn't mean he's forgotten about it.'

The Master shoots him a venomous look and Jack cringes to see the Doctor actually flinch. ' _You_ can go at get yourself arrested then. _I'm_ going to stay here and help, so at least one of us takes responsibility for what they've started.'

The Doctor sighs defeatedly, looking to Jack with the beginnings of a warm, familiar smile. 'Well, if they're going to hold the vote tomorrow, we need to get the Villages behind us immediately. Want to come, Jack?'

The warmth of his eyes ignites something deep in Jack's insides and he can't help smiling back, greedily oblivious to the Master's curled lip. ''Course I do. Let's go.'

***

The wagon drivers at the edge of the Palace grounds are a sun-bleached, enthusiastic husband-and-wife pair, who almost fall over themselves for the opportunity to deliver the off-worlders northward. The path, they insist is along their usual trade route, and only a couple hours' travel.

Fiddling anxiously, Jack asks if they'll arrive by sundown, to which the drivers nod enthusiastically. The Doctor and Jack take a cart each, perched atop the load of hay and sacks of grain, the wagons pulled by more of the strange rhino-like animals.

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon, adrenaline steadily building into a resounding _thump_ with every heartbeat. He feels terse, on edge, and not even the Doctor's blissful grin is enough to lighten his mood. Well. He can't help the occasional frisson of lust that sizzles down his spine when the Doctor naps, eyes softly closed and creases smoothed out of his face, when something catches the Doctor's eye and he follows it keenly with a stretch of his neck--really, when the Doctor does anything. Another barrier the Doctor's kiss melted away; that feeling that wanting him was somehow wrong, even predatory. It hasn't felt anything but since the Valiant.

'Are they friendly?' the Doctor asks, suddenly, nudging his head towards the front of the cart. 'The horses, I mean.'

The lady of the pair, a wild-haired woman who looks more youthful in all her wrinkles than Jack does without, laughs 'Oh, the Orouk! Very, but it can take some time to train them. Ours are, but not so much I'd let them share a bed.'

'Not cold enough here for a three dog night, I suppose,' the Doctor muses, tossing a bit of straw off his suit jacket.

They ride through the second sunset, the sky a gentle peach streaked with fiery red. Unbidden, Jack recalls his mother telling him on blustery nights hundreds of years ago - _whenever the sky bleeds red, somewhere a fire burns and a father sleeps dead_ \- and sets his teeth. 'How much longer until we arrive?'

'Oh, not long now,' says the Doctor, 'Look, the Villages should be just through that valley.'

In the distance, a ridge of mountains loom, and Jack hopes they reach the Villages before nightfall. The Doctor sheds his jacket, Jack's eyes catching on the points of his shoulders, the buttons of his shirt pulling tight over his chest - and folds it beneath his head, gazing up at the sky. 'See the meteorite band, there? Bet there's all kinds of life, the climate's so mild and wet. I wonder if you get space termites, on meteorites. Even if you don't get them here, you have to have space termites somewhere, don't you? Bloody little insects survive everything. End of the universe, even.'

'Almost,' Jack murmurs, under his breath.

***

The stars gleam brightly over the grass as they arrive at a little cluster of huts, nestled in the mouth of the valley. The Doctor rouses excitedly, thoroughly enthralled by the glow worms and fireflies, but Jack anxiously watches torches light themselves across the valley as the wagon trundles through the dirt.

'We're moving on to the Second Village once we've unloaded,' the lady, Cali, says. 'We have to make this delivery before the Festival, so if you want to spend the night, we will pass through again at dawn for the return trip.'

'Thanks,' says the Doctor, 'We won't be long.' Hopping off the cart, he aims his sonic at a patch of dry grass and ignites it, grabbing one of the torches in the back of the cart and lighting it.

Jack rubs his shoulders briskly, his extremities clammy and cold in the dewy night breeze. 'Who do we speak to? Do you think they have a village mayor, or CEO or something?'

'Jack,' laughs the Doctor, grabbing his hand, 'Come on, let's just ask someone.'

The first door they try reveals an almost azure-blue woman, already dressed in her toga and wide-eyed. 'The aliens,' she gasps, 'My apologies, I didn't know you were visiting _here_ , I'd only heard--please, we must all greet you welcome. You may wait inside, please help yourselves to anything.'

Leaving the door open, she bustles out, lighting a great brazier off to the side of the entrance which casts an orange glow over the whole village, its many tiers spreading the flame higher. Soon, a number of Uthestrans gather, some fully-clothed, some hastily covered in blankets, chattering excitedly. Cali and her husband sit in the corner, tending to their animals still tethered to the carts.

The Doctor clears his throat, stepping forward into the orange firelight. 'I've come to tell you that Eprush, the master artisan of the King's Palace, died this morning. He was killed because he was stealing from all of you, because the whole Royal Family has been treating its people unfairly, and nobody would listen.'

The nervous chatter suddenly drops away to dead, stricken silence.

'I'm listening,' the Doctor continues, his head held high. 'Myself and my companions are historians, from another world, and we've come to warn the King what will happen if he doesn't listen. Tomorrow, at the Festival of the Winds, the King will come to ask every single citizen what should be done with the people's wealth and opening the borders of this world, and support whichever stance the people, together, prefer.'

He pauses, carefully gauging the reaction of the villagers. 'But, this killing has to stop. Nobody will listen to you if you murder, if you threaten. For everybody's sake, this vote has to go ahead, and that's not going to happen if the King thinks somebody else will die. That's all I've got to say.'

Jack nods, looking from the gathering to the Doctor. _His_ Doctor.

'Okay,' the Doctor says, 'Have a good night, thank you for listening.'

***

The nervous energy is seeping out of Jack's bones by the time they reach the Third Village of the North, giving way to aching tiredness of hours spent cramped in the back of the wagon, and more still poring over Eprush's belongings earlier. The moons are scattered wide across the sky when the Doctor has finished his speech, his voice slowly growing hoarse.

Exhausted, Jack trails along back to Cali and the carts, her husband unleashing the Orouk and enclosing them in a small pen where others of their kind are dozing. 'Is this all of them?'

'We spend the night here, in the Third Village, and travel back before dawn,' the man, Paran, says. 'Please, take rest in our rooms, there is plenty of space to share. Cali?'

Cali bustles towards them, heaving a bag of sleeping mats over her shoulder. 'Come on, our hut is just this way.'

She sets them up in a small room, the window open like those of the Palace to a gentle brook, bubbling softly amongst the noise of crickets and insects fluttering. The Doctor and Jack share a sleeping mat, stuffed with straw and some kind of spongy plant material, a soft knitted blanket thrown over them. Lying, facing each other, the Doctor yawns widely and settles in, his arm nestled near Jack's chest.

Smiling, Jack watches his eyes slide closed, and pulls the arm over his chest, lacing his fingers tight through the Doctor's. The involuntary, peaceful little smile that falls over the Doctor's face is worth its weight in gold.

'Sleep tight, Doctor,' Jack says, daring to wedge his other hand out of the covers and gently stroke the Doctor's hair - once, and twice just to make sure this is _really happening_. 'I love you.'

The Doctor stiffens, eyes opening; inquisitive, the kind of expression Jack would expect if he were some particularly interesting TARDIS malfunction. And then, with his trademark goldfish-like attention, the Doctor just smiles again and says, 'You know, I haven't really slept, not in months.'

Gathering his courage, Jack chuckles and says, 'Well, if you're not tired, I can think of some better things we could be doing together.'

' _Jack_ ,' the Doctor says, half-laugh, half-protest. 'I mean, I think tonight I'll sleep well. Thank you.'

***

The Doctor holds true to his word, snoring shamelessly. But Jack lies awake, even with the Doctor's cool body refreshing against his side, the whistle of the water beside their room. He can't help feel like he's missed something, or maybe he just can't accept something good when it finally, finally happens to him. It's not how he expected it, _the Master_ of all people like some sort of third Catherine wheel between them, not at all - but he's happy, like this, he could be happy like this. He has the Doctor, who isn't going to grow old, or die, not if Jack is there to protect these last few precious regenerations. So why can't he sleep?

Frustrated, Jack extracts his fingers as gently as possible from the Doctor's, carefully levering the blankets away so as not to disturb him. Planting a single, gentle kiss on the Doctor's head, he slips silently out the door, heaving a deep exhale in the cool moonlight.

The village is silent, the lights dark, with only the flickering of coals and embers occasionally tinting the huts orange-red. Jack sits against a wall, staring up at the sky; clouds now drifting across to obscure the moons and stars.

He's almost grateful when a young male darts up to him, skittish and panting, glancing around the little corridor between the huts.

'Hello?' Jack asks, raising his eyebrows, 'Hey, you don't need to be scared, I only want to help.'

'Hi,' the boy says, voice deeper than Jack expected. 'I, um...I'm sorry, I really really...please, don't be mad with me. Just I know you're not from here and I don't want you to _die_ because of us, I know you two are trying to help as well. But tomorrow at the Festival..' he trails off, looking away.

Jack steers him back by the shoulders. 'What? C'mon, what do you mean? The Festival?'

'Don't be in the square,' he whispers, 'That's where all the Royals watch and...don't be there, okay?'

'Hold on,' Jack hisses, 'Did you say die? Are people going to die tomorrow?'

'Please, please, I thought you would already know but with what your friend was saying, I'm just telling you what I've heard,' he mutters frantically, 'I have to go, I'm not supposed to know anything.'

'What's your name?' Jack calls, still under his breath, the boy halting before he rounds the corner.

'Jareth,' he says, 'Goodbye.'

Heart racing, Jack runs the conversation over and over in his mind. And then the pieces click together in a horrible, sickening realisation, and he realises he can fix this, or have the Doctor, but he can't have both.

Jack bolts to the pen, hoisting himself over the fence and shaking the knots of the nearest Orouk's tether undone. Unlocking the gate, he tugs the beast out into the open, petting its face in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. It allows him to mount it, easing into the saddle still-buckled from the trip earlier that evening, trotting restlessly as he grabs its tether and winds it tight around his wrist.

'Okay, big boy,' Jack says, nudging his heels into its flanks, 'Quick as you can, to the Palace.'

If he can't have both, then he'll just have to die trying.

***

The beast's hooves strike the hard-packed earth with a rhythmic _thud_ , firecracker-loud in the cool, silent night. The stars shine so much brighter than on Earth, the moons casting light across the earth so that Jack can see his path. Far away, in the distance, he sees the spires of the Palace, the rooves of the market.

Jack clings on to the Orouk's tether tighter, his other hand gripping the saddle. He hardly feels the jolting gallop in his knees, the chafe of the saddle through his trousers.

He rides through the night until the first tendrils of mauve sneak their way over the mountains, glow eerily through the morning mist. He passes through the trade gate with no guards or officers there to stop him and slows his mount just inside the city walls, by a nearby house. Legs stiff, shaking, Jack slides off the Orouk's back. It tugs away, but he holds it still long enough to wind its tether around the bindings of the saddle and, satisfied, sets it free.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Jack stretches out the cramps in his legs and heads to the square. He doesn't have long before the Festival starts.

The first sun has risen by the time he reaches the inner markets surrounding the Palace. His heart quickens; he knows the festivities begin when the second sun has risen. Already, Uthestrans are emerging from their homes, their customary togas replaced with flowing, sheer pieces of coloured silks and embroidered scarves.

Jack's fingers curl tight into fists as he enters the square. The stage is fully set, the scaffolding transformed into tiered stalls, and underneath them the access tunnels for the performers, the workers. And the Master.

Jack's feet don't falter as he locks eyes with the other Time Lord. He even has the rare, satisfying privilege of seeing the Master _surprised_ , just for a split-second, before he regains control of his features and they twist into a scowl. He closes the distance between them and grabs his suit jacket.

'You,' Jack hisses, 'I knew it, I fucking knew it.'

The Master stays quiet a moment, eyes boring coldly into his. 'And you still haven't told him, have you?'

Jack could scream with the frustration. Instead, he releases the Master with a flick of his hand usually reserved for Weevil shit and paces. 'No. We both know what that would-- _you_ know, you _know_ what it would do to him.'

'What I do to the Doctor isn't, and never has been your business,' the Master enunciates icily.

Mustering his courage, Jack takes a deep breath and says, 'It is now.'

The Master just raises his eyebrows and laughs, glancing around like he wants someone to share the joke with. 'Oh, right, I see. So,' he begins, drawing closer like he isn't a head shorter, and slighter, 'You're going to _stop_ me?'

'Yeah,' Jack says, and pulls his pistol and aims it squarely at the Master's chest.

Quicker than Jack can so much as blink, something wrenches the barrel of the gun from his hand, and Jack reflexively squeezes the trigger as he loses his grip and shields his head. The noise goes off like an explosion beside his ear, his entire head ringing with the force of it--and then he opens his eyes to sawdust and light blinding through the wood over his head.

His vision swims into focus on the hot metal of his own gun digging into the bridge of his nose.

It's not a bad way to die.

***

Jack's first awareness is his own lungs, gasping in air, and the rope rubbing painfully into his wrists and ankles. He's upright, which doesn't make any sense in his groggy brain, until he registers the slow ache in his shoulders and the corners of the wooden support hard against his back.

Groaning, Jack opens his eyes, struggling to see much of the darkened service corridor around the sunbeam streaming in through the roof.

'Hello, Freak,' says a cold, amused voice beside his ear.

Jack's blood freezes in his veins and he shakes his head wildly, trying to blink away the images of steel and blood and despair--it's not real, he knows, and still-- 'Please. Please, don't.'

He hears a sharp sigh of breath. Hands rip open his shirt and Jack closes his eyes and throws his head back against the post. He tugs hard on his ropes, but of course, the Master is always too careful, too precise. There's nowhere to go.

'I'd just _love_ to pick up from where we left off, but I'm really very busy,' the Master says, tugging his chin back down and shaking for good measure. 'Go on, what do we say?'

But Jack isn't thinking about the words, about the cool air on his exposed skin, the fingers pressed tight into his jaw. He thinks of the Doctor; he thinks of the choice he made a year ago. He doesn't regret it.

'Don't do this,' Jack says, looking him the eyes as much as he can bear, 'If you love him, if you...Please, choose me. I'll do anything, I won't tell him, I won't fight you--just not him.'

The Master looks annoyed and whirls around, hand pinching the bridge of his nose. 'And what would anybody _ever_ want from you, Freak?'

It hurts, more than it should. Jack stays silent.

Moments pass.

He hears a crunch in the gravel. 'You know what?'

'What?' Jack echoes obediently, daring to open his eyes. The Master is grinning excitedly.

'I accept. I'll remember this, Jack, don't you think I'll forget,' he says, his mood suddenly bright.

Jack can hardly believe his ears. 'You'll stop this? You'll...you'll save the Festival?'

The Master traces a finger down his exposed skin. 'Honestly, it's a pain in the arse, but, how can I say no? For our dear Doctor, for all the fun we're going to have, I'll do it.'

The sinking feeling in Jack's stomach wars with the butterflies that imagine how _pleased_ the Doctor will be when he finds out they've saved the Royal Family together. 'Okay. Are you going to let me down?'

The Master has already disappeared from view, his hands fiddling with the knots at Jack's wrists. He almost falls over when the ropes fall slack, his balance still off-kilter.

'You can do the rest yourself, thanks to you, I've got work to do,' says the Master, and bids him goodbye with a wiggle of his fingers.

The butterflies slowly losing the war on his insides, Jack rolls the aches out of his shoulders and convinces his limbs into doing up the remaining buttons on his shirt. He carefully bends to untie his ankles. When he leaves, he doesn't miss the deep brown of his own blood, scattered over the floor, the splinters of wood still hanging from the roof.

Of course, he runs head-first into the Doctor, out of breath and wild-eyed as he grabs Jack's shoulders and snaps, 'What happened to you?'

'Oh,' Jack says, 'I--,' he looks down at himself, buttons mis-matched and drying blood sprayed across his shirt, 'Never mind, I'm okay. It's the rebels, Doctor, I don't know how they're going to do it, but he's going to kill all the nobles during the Festival, when everybody's in this square.'

The Doctor shakes his head, 'What? Who's going to kill them?'

 _Shit_ , Jack thinks, 'Um…'

The Master slinks out from the stalls, arms crossed and smirking. 'Hello, Doctor. Glad to see the diplomacy worked so well for you.'

'What's going on?' the Doctor demands, his eyes dark.

The Master ever so slightly inclines his head, like he's conceding, and Jack sees right through it. 'It's Markhai. He's working for the rebels. I caught him wiring fireworks into the lighting, or, that's what he told me they were. See for yourself.' He leads them to the nearest strut, snaked with their home-made circuitry, and gestures to a small pouch of what looks like sand.

The Doctor rubs his fingers over it and sniffs them. 'Sulfur, aluminium, copper, potassium nitrate, and…' Tentatively licking his fingertips, he turns to the Master and says incredulously, 'Sodium cyanide?'

Jack just stares at his feet, feeling ill.

'But _how_?' the Doctor continues, dusting his hand off on his trousers furiously, 'Mark? Are you sure it was him?'

'I saw him,' says the Master, and he looks as if he honestly believes it. It's the essence of a successful con, Jack knows that.

'You really think Mark could have come up with this? I mean, poison gas? These people think air is a _deity_ , I saw the rebels and I spoke with them, and there's just no way they could have figured out something like this,' the Doctor points out, eyeing off the little pouch of flash powder nailed to the wood.

'I don't know, Doctor,' the Master says, 'I thought _you_ might be able to help with that.'

'Did you know?' the Doctor asks, staring Jack in the eyes earnestly. 'Is that why you came back?'

Suddenly panicking, Jack racks his brains and blurts out, 'Yeah, yeah it is. I thought we could talk them out of it, I didn't want Mark to get in trouble, but I had to be sure. Turns out we were wrong about changing their minds.'

The Doctor's hand on his shoulder, firm and reassuring, is almost worth it.

'Okay,' he nods. 'Where did you last see him? We have to get him to the King and tell him what's going on.'

'No need,' the Master says, 'I've already sent word with a guard. They should be here soon, with the carpenter.'

Jack bites his lip. He thinks of Mark; his easy-going smile, his enthusiasm. He doesn't deserve this. But neither does the Doctor deserve the truth, and somebody has to lose.

'Oh, great,' the Doctor says, pointing at the entrance, 'Here come the villagers.'

The head of a massive parade, lined up in twos, is making its way through the streets. The Uthestrans are dressed in vivid oranges and pinks, like the morning sunset; it clashes harshly with their pale blue skin but it reminds Jack of home. They hold bronze shields, flashing the sunlight off them where it bounces between the walls of the marketplace, and sing joyful hymns.

The Master kicks a toolbox across to them. 'Well, hurry up, if you can't get the bags down then cut the wires.'

The Doctor selects a sturdy hammer and tosses it at Jack's feet, rummaging in his jacket for his sonic for himself instead. The wood is cool and smooth in Jack's hands, and he thinks if one person has to suffer, that's okay, but he can save the rest of them. He works his way around the stalls belting the nails that anchor the wires out of the wood. He doesn't think of how close the Master was to succeeding.

They've only managed to deconstruct the wiring for half of the square when the steady march of boots, louder than the villagers converging in the streets beyond, interrupts them. The King and his men.

Jack can't bear to look at what they've done, but he hears just the same. 'Please, I beg of you to ask my friends, the off-worlders! They have watched me closer than any othe--'

Jack raises his head to a small army of guards and soldiers, clustered in groups around an ornate open-topped carriage. The King, ferried in its centre on golden cushions, motions for the guards to bring the trio closer.

'It's a terrible mistake,' Markhai pleads by the King's carriage, his arms held firm by two guards.

'Is it true?' the King simply says, speaking to all three of them. 'My advisors have informed me Markhai was the last to visit Eprush before he died.'

The Doctor bows out of the way, avoiding Mark's eyes. Jack hates this.

'Yes,' says the Master, 'It is. Both myself and Captain Harkness witnessed him nailing up _these_ ,' he throws a pouch at the king, and adds, 'Poison. When set alight during the traditional fireworks, enough toxic gas would fill this square to kill or injure everybody in it. And then, the Palace would be free for the rebels to take, with no King or guards to protect it.'

Jack just nods, eyes locked at his feet.

'Cancel the Festival,' the King says, immediately. 'Nobody enters this square, and no-one leaves the city until peace, safety, and justice have been restored. And neither is a word of this told to our people until they may know the full truth.'

'We've pulled down most of the bags, but we need more time,' pleads the Doctor. 'Thank you. I'm so sorry, I tried to speak with them last night, but I couldn't stop them.'

The King salutes him. 'You have done as much as I would expect of any citizen, though you are from another world. We have only gratitude and respect. May I offer my finest guards, to help?' He motions for Eruk, the Chief of the Royal Guard, and another Jack has seen around the Palace.

'That won't be necessary,' the Master dismisses, 'Focus your guards on protecting yourself, and your people, your Majesty.'

Anxiously, Jack follows the two Time Lords back to the stalls. As he turns, he catches sight of Mark's face; a deep purple, tears streaming from his eyes. He looks at Jack in a way that makes him feel naked to the core and ashamed. And still, Mark stays silent.

The Doctor and the Master keep meeting eyes while they finish the rest of their work. Jack imagines they're speaking in their heads again and fleetingly hopes the Doctor will see through the Master's façade, into his head and this can all just end.

Instead the Master stops, suddenly and says; 'It's all my fault.'

The world screeches to a halt.

'What?' Jack says, dumbfounded. And then, suddenly, he realises he's been double-crossed, and the Master is going to expose his lie for what it is--

'I told Aithera,' he says seriously, his eyes wide as he looks from Jack to the Doctor, 'About the wiring, and the fireworks. She was curious and wanted to learn how they worked. I really thought it was harmless, honestly, it was _basic chemistry_ , I didn't expect her to turn into Walter White.'

The Doctor ducks his head down, 'I mean, I knew she was involved with the rebels, but this kind of mass-murder?'

'Who do you think told me to kill that old artisan?' the Master replies, raising an eyebrow.

Jack shakes his head, horrified, as subtly as he can.

The Doctor rests his palm across his eyes. 'I can't believe I didn't see it earlier. Yeah, I think...yeah. Come on.'

Powerless, Jack watches him drop his tools and direct the Master back to the King with a glance and a careful nod. He doesn't need to hear their hushed voices to know what they're saying.

It feels unreal; the way her face falls, vulnerable in a way that makes Jack feel like his gaze alone violates her, the King's sorrow plain even twenty paces away. 'No, no, Father I never,' Aithera stammers, gripping the King's forearm.

Closing his eyes, the King rests his hand on top of hers. 'Please. Bring no more shame to this family by lying.'

She weeps openly. 'I knew, I knew but I swear on our lives, I did not think there would be dead, he said--'

'Enough,' says the King. 'Both you and Markhai may give your testament when our people are here to bear witness.'

He opens his mouth, only to be cut off by Eruk, whose yell carries from the edge of the square, 'My King! Villagers, from the North, carrying weapons! They are approaching us and I cannot tell how many they are.'

'Assemble your soldiers,' snaps the King, 'Quickly, quickly, they will not fight if they see we are protected.'

The Doctor glances back to where Jack is standing, dumbfounded, watching the chaos unfold from under the stalls. There should be people above his head; cheering, laughing. Instead, the soldiers arm themselves with spears and energy weapons, the guards push the congregation back away from the square.

The Doctor grabs the Master's sleeve and runs to him, but Jack can only stare at the two other people who stand as still as he does; Markhai and Aithera, held by a guard each at the exit they marched through, innocents, minutes ago. Jack mouths _I'm sorry_ to them, _I'm so sorry_ , but then the Doctor is telling him to run and he walks out into the square, everything suddenly too loud and too real.

They take the exit corridor, well-protected by the guards. Half-walking, half-running, the Master pauses to smile half-heartedly at Aithera. Blowing her a kiss, he sighs, 'Any other century, you would have been just perfect.'

Jack doesn't look back as they run.

***

Jack's legs are aching and sore, his head spinning, and everything hurts but he feels nothing. Not even the sight of the TARDIS, blue and solid and real in the fields is a relief; it's a prison, it's back into the hell he wishes he hadn't walked into months ago.

Breathless, they pick up renewed speed, their shoes squelching in the mud. The Doctor flings open the door and herds him and the Master through. It's so familiar; the TARDIS's hum, the ethereal glow of the console.

The Doctor flings down levers, his shoes squeaking on the grating as he sends them adrift into the Vortex.

The Master is the first to speak, pushing himself off the railing. 'Well, Doctor, I'll forgive you the excursion, but if your bloody old Type 40 doesn't run any hot water this time, I'll wring your neck myself. And nobody dare flush the toilet while I shower.'

Jack stares dully at the floor.

'Come on, cheer up,' the Doctor says, resting his hand on Jack's shoulder again. 'You saved hundreds of people, you even worked together while I wasn't there! I can't say how proud of you I am today.'

Jack just snorts quietly. 'Not so sure you should be.'

'Too bad,' the Doctor smirks, tilting Jack's head up with his chin, 'I am.'

It's just a brief press of lips, warm and soft and calming. It doesn't ignite a fire in Jack's chest. It breaks through the hazy shock and makes him feel like maybe, everything can still be okay.

Jack kisses back, just a moment, before they part. Maybe he doesn't regret this. Not if he can still make this work.

They're interrupted by a series of sharp beeps from his wrist strap.

 

 

 

> _5 New Messages: Ianto Jones_

 

'Sorry, Doc, I'd better check these,' Jack says, 'You know how things are back home.' He heads out of the console room, taking the first couple of corridors and sliding to the floor to check the alert.

 

 

 

> _Dear Sir,_
> 
> _I haven't heard from you in a while, so I can only assume you're getting up to all sorts of trouble on your trip. We all miss you, especially Gwen. Trust me, it's a Welsh thing, she says she wants to wring your neck but she really means she wants to hug you._
> 
> _I hope you're okay, we're holding up fine here._
> 
> _I miss you too._
> 
> _Your Ianto_

 

 

 

> _Dear Sir,_
> 
> _I know it's probably nothing, but I'm getting worried about you. I haven't heard from you in four months, I hope everything is okay. Just let me know you're alright._
> 
> _I love you,_
> 
> _Ianto_

 

 

 

> _I honestly don't know if you're still there or you just can't talk, but please if you get this message then come back. We need you. John's back, the city's blown up half to pieces. Please, Jack._
> 
> _-Ianto_

 

 

 

> _How can you do this to us, again? To me? I was there for you last time. I won't do it again, Jack. Tosh and Owen are dead. He said he was your brother before he killed them. You'd better have a fucking good explanation._

 

 

 

> _I know you're not dead. I know you've got a time machine. You're not here, Jack, and if you ever come back, then I won't be either. Goodbye._

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things I'd like to add here for clarity (sorry, sorry, I know you probably want chocolate or tissues):
> 
> 1\. The Master's comment about "I-dont-like-them-archies" refers to the suffix -archy, which is used to describe styles of government. Like monarchy, oligarchy, kyriarchy...etc. I was in two minds whether to keep this in because it's a bit obscure, so I'm really sorry if it didn't make sense to read through the first time. Hope this clears it up (:
> 
> 2\. Technically, Breaking Bad's first episode aired Jan '08, so the Master honestly wouldn't have had a chance to watch it during TYTNW. I hate to bend the rules a bit but I really, really wanted to keep that joke in so I'm just going to quietly, shamefully pop this down here in the comments. You can all just pretend the Doctor has the boxset in the TARDIS library, right?


	10. III: Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO my lovely readers! Hope you enjoy the next installment, I've had a lot of fun writing it. I just want to give some additional warnings for this chapter - there's some graphic (repeated) character death, descriptions of claustrophobia, some fairly nasty torture as well as nonconsensual sexual situations. We've also got some fairly well-known Torchwood spoilers but that's all I'll say. Tread carefully and have fun <3

All at once, the world falls apart. The floor drops out from beneath him into some horrific nightmare instead; the angles of the corridor warping, twisted, reality turned inside-out.

His heart is a blur ricocheting through his chest, bile seeping through the skin of his throat, but he feels paralysed. Insensate.

> _...won't do it again, Jack. Tosh and Owen are dead. He said he was your brother before…_

He stares at the words, the pixels too sharp, too fake. Transistors and polarised light in neat little slices of red, green, and blue, and the more he reads them, the clearer they become and the more he sees them for what they are; senseless packets of photons, of nonsense. They mean nothing.

Two seconds ago, none of this was real. And now it is.

His feet have found their way into the console room, the Doctor's easy grin collapsing into that _look_ , he knows everything and admits nothing, and he says, 'They're dead. You have to send me back, you have to send me back before it happened.'

The Doctor's words are empty noise and Jack yells, slams his fist onto the TARDIS's console. 'Send me _back_! You send me back, _right now_ , fix this, that's what you do!'

'I can't, Jack,' the Doctor says, delicately. 'I just can't.'

Feeling returns to him with overwhelming grief, refusal. Jack shakes his head and hisses, 'What do you mean, you can't? You can't, or you don't want to?'

'Jack,' the Doctor says quietly, grabbing his hand where it's still clenched tight into a fist, 'I'm so sorry.'

He can feel the tears, hot and wet on his face. 'Please, you have to send me back. Please, Doctor.'

His face finds the Doctor's jacket; familiar and crisp against his skin. Long, gentle hands are rubbing rhythmically up and down his back. It doesn't help. 'You know why, Jack. You can't cross your own timeline. If you erase the event that made you go back in time in the first place to prevent it... It's an ontological paradox. I'm sorry, you can't.'

'Come on,' Jack pleads, grasping the Doctor's arms, 'You do this all the time, don't you? Cross timelines? You're the _Doctor_.'

The Doctor crouches down and meets his eyes. 'The Rift, this whole time period is too fragile from the Master's paradox. It's Torchwood, isn't it? Those people you told me about? I can't land her in that epicentre so soon, I don't know what that could do.'

'I don't _care_ ,' Jack forces out, pushing him away. 'That's a chance I'm willing to take. I'm going, and you can't stop me.' Fingers shaking, he fumbles with his vortex manipulator, locking the destination to the date and GPS coordinates of Ianto's last message. He doesn't know if he can even travel while within the Vortex, but what's another death?

'Jack!' the Doctor says, 'Just stop what you're doing and think about this, for all you know it's a fixed point - you might end up being the one to kill them! You humans, you think you know everything because you figured out how to hop between points, you have no _idea_ what this might do.'

Lips quivering, Jack shakes his head violently. 'Yeah. Wish me luck then.'

He slams his hand down, and the TARDIS blinks away.

 

 

The first thing Jack hears is the shrieking. People, screaming in the distance; Jack whirls around, but he's in a single room, sirens flashing wildly in harsh emergency red. They bounce off a blue tank filling the majority of the room. Jack can't see inside. The air is acrid.

'Ianto?' Jack calls, coughing. 'Ianto!'

He sees him; a sprawl of limbs, curled on the tiled floor. One hand is grasping his phone. Jack rushes to his side, struggling to breathe. There's something in the air and he doesn't know how long either he or Ianto will last.

Shaking, Jack pulls Ianto's form into his arms, praying desperately he isn't too late already-- 'Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry Ianto, I came as soon as I could, I love you I'm so sorry…'

Ianto's eyes open. '...Jack.'

'I'm sorry,' Jack weeps, pulling his body tighter, 'Come on, I'm going to get you out of here, I'm--'

' _You will die. And tomorrow, your people will deliver the children._ '

Jack's head whips up. That voice. It's been so long, but he _knows_ that voice.

_Oh god, no._

And that's when he knows he's too late. When he knows everything has gone to hell.

'I'm sorry,' Ianto whispers, his breath labouring, 'It's not your fault.'

He's already crying. Unable to drag his eyes off the tank, horrified, Jack grips Ianto's hand fiercely. 'No, no, it is my fault, please. You're going to be okay.'

Ianto shakes his head, tears shining on his cheeks, too. 'I loved you. Don't forget me.'

Jack can feel his body fighting for consciousness. His lungs catch around gasps for air, sobs. ' _No_ ,' he whispers, 'Please, Ianto, don't leave me. Don't leave.'

Ianto's eyes are already glassy. His lips fall slack.

'Ianto!' Jack yells, shaking his shoulders, 'Don't leave, please, please stay with me.'

His lips form over a word, but he has no breath to say it. Jack isn't done begging, apologising, promising, isn't done _anything_ , but Ianto is already gone.

The only consolation is he's dying, too, and the last thing he'll see is Ianto's face. The darkness falls, blessed and complete.

_'Goodbye.'_

 

***

 

Jack wakes in Ianto's bed, his eyes stuck shut, his muscles weary. The TARDIS's hum drones like a buzzing fly in the back of his skull. Memory is hard to drag out of his mind; he knows he's died, he knows…

Bolting upright, Jack reaches for his vortex manipulator; it's gone. His wrist feels unnaturally bare without it. 'No, no, _no_ , where is it,' Jack growls, pulling the blankets apart, the drawers of the nightstand.

Maybe, Jack thinks, it was just a bad dream - some weird hallucination, one of the Master's tricks. He got rid of...them, the 456, years ago. He shivers and shoves that memory back down. Not Earth. Not Ianto.

He catches sight of a hastily-scrawled note, sitting on the bedside table.

 

> _Jack,_
> 
> _I'm so sorry, I followed you the moment you left, but it was already too late when I found you. I know you cared about him very much. Don't worry, I found his parents, they'll make the arrangements. It's all taken care of._
> 
> _I think you should rest a while, I've put the TARDIS in orbit and locked her down. I'll be in the Library if you need anything._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _The Doctor_
> 
> _P.S. I know you won't be happy, but I disabled the Vortex Manipulator again. Please trust me, it'll make things worse if you try._

 

Jack waits for the tears, the anguish; anger, denial, anything. He feels nothing. He feels like it's what he deserves for leaving them.

A horrible, quiet place inside him knows this isn't the first time or the last. It's the next billion ( _trillion_ ) years of his life, until Time itself collapses. But he'll honour Ianto's final wish; a last, parting cruelty. He won't forget.

He scrunches the note in his fist so hard his nails cut into his skin. His pistol is missing, too, like someone's idea of a joke. Jack laughs bitterly, too numb for anger.

His clothes have been changed, he notices. He wonders if that was the Doctor's doing too; if he stripped him, if he kept his eyes on-task, if his hands strayed over Jack's half-corpse skin. If it reminded him of his own kind.

And still, it's not the library he finds himself walking towards. It's a plain, grey door; sterile and out-of-place in the junk of the Doctor's TARDIS.

He knocks, and waits.

'Come in, Freak,' the Master says.

Jack does. He isn't surprised; minimalist, black, wooden furniture and glass surfaces. He's seen as much of the Master's taste on the Valiant.

The Master sits casually at a writing desk, one hand bracing a book open, the other tapping that incessant rhythm onto the table. He looks bored.

'You know, it's such a shame you and the Doctor destroyed that Paradox Machine of mine. We could have saved him together.'

It's such an obvious thing to say, so predictable, that Jack laughs. 'Did you spend some time coming up with that one?'

'Well, go on, then,' the Master smiles politely, raising his eyebrows, 'What do you want?'

Jack doesn't hesitate as he says, 'We still have a deal, right? You're going to leave the Doctor alone, don't you _dare_ turn this around on him.'

The Master puts his book down. 'Clever boy. Aren't you just full of surprises, Freak. And in return I suppose you want me to kill you, make it go away, make you _forget_ , hmm? I ought to start charging an hourly fee.'

'Shut _up_ ,' Jack hisses, 'We both get what we want, you sick _fuck_.'

Leering, closing the distance between them, the Master hums, 'Oh, Jack, you have no _idea_ what I want.'

Jack meets his eyes; glistening, hard. He stands his ground. 'Then show me. I can't get rid of you. You can't get rid of me. You want to work out a truce, or keep playing these stupid games with me?'

'No, not at all,' the Master agrees, rolling his neck, 'I get the feeling this is going to be a _lot_ more profitable. There's a lot I never got around to trying on you.'

Jack feels a cold, worn kind of peace wash over him. Resignation. 'Make it last. I don't care what you do, I want to be gone for a good long while.'

'Well,' he says, dismantling his Windsor knot with a twist of his fingers, 'On your knees.'

There it is; hard, bright fury. Jack grits his teeth and stays still. He won't be a mindless toy, like Lucy was, he won't beg. He has nothing he's willing to give, he needs to be pushed.

The Master's face gives away nothing. Then his fist is buried in the roots of Jack's hair and his head is yanked viciously down. Jack's hands claw and pull at his wrists in instinct but the Master only uses the leverage to drive his knee into Jack's groin. The pain twisting hard in his stomach, his vision swimming with the intensity of it, Jack lands on the floor, curled and defensive.

'You can't have forgotten the rules that quickly,' drones the Master's voice, 'Rule one: I never ask twice.'

It's dark, behind Jack's eyes, the floor hard and unforgiving. His head pounds with the effort of keeping silent as the pain reaches a crescendo. The rough, low tones of his voice are forcing his mind somewhere small and hopeless; the words dragging him there as if to mock him for thinking he could ever leave.

The floor suddenly lurches beneath him, tossing him weightless, and Jack's eyes snap open - they're somewhere else, now, the furniture and block colours lost to cold metal beneath his back, a room so small it's almost claustrophobic. The Master digs through a filing cabinet, his eyes hard with concentration.

A tangle of leather lands on his chest; belts, all well-worn and smooth. The Master's hands make quick work cinching them around his limbs, through the bottom of the waist-high surface he's lying on, and the echoing ache is gone to a clear rush of adrenaline.

By the time he's made sense of it as the TARDIS, her psychic interface building and re-imagining her interior, he can't move. His breath comes hard as he watches the Master slam open and shut each drawer of the cabinet and finally take a red box from the wall.

'A first aid kit?' Jack says, warily, finding his voice steady and true like an old comfort, a lighthouse in a storm.

'I've had worse,' admits the Master, and selects a glass syringe; he pierces an ampoule of liquid and draws up the full volume.

Drugs. Jack doesn't like those; coming back to life doesn't always get rid of them. 'What's that?'

At first he thinks the Master isn't going to tell him, hand pressing down tight over his bicep, but he squints at the bottle and says, 'Vercuronium bromide, apparently. Primitive anaesthetic, Earth I'd wager. One step above magic potions.'

Jack is suddenly equal parts confused and relieved. 'Anaesthetic?'

The needle goes smoothly into his skin and is discarded with a _chink_ of glass on concrete. Jack flinches at the pinch. 'Disappointed, are we? Dear dear, Jack.'

'No,' Jack says, refusing to think about that small, tiny part that thought he deserved--and suddenly his chest feels heavy, his limbs sluggish.

The Master's tie hangs loosely off one sleeve, dangling in his field of view, and then it's tight over his eyes and knotted across the bridge of his nose for good measure.

Jack's heart starts to pound. Breathing is increasingly taking effort; the air stuttering and skipping into his lungs no matter how he heaves, never quite flowing deep enough.

Then his muscles stop working altogether.

Choking, panicking; his chest burning and constricted with the need to breathe, Jack tries to yell, to scream, but no matter how hard he thrashes nothing will respond. Maybe the Master's figured it out after all, some kind of cure and he just _let him_ \--but bright dots are flaring behind his vision, his consciousness is slipping away, and he's dying.

Jack has no idea where he is. His lungs crush his chest with the urge to draw a deep, first breath but he can't move; can't breathe or see. He tries harder, but he feels crushed under some colossal weight and no amount of strength will move it. He realises he's dying. Terrified, he clings on to the fading rush of thoughts, to life, but he's suffocating already and it's too late.

 

***

 

His heart is already pounding when life returns to him, but his throat won't work, he can't move his chest to breathe. Panicking, Jack thinks hard; he knows this isn't the first time, he knows he's been here a while. The crushing weight, the blackness is familiar. _God, no, please no, not this._ But the thought slips away, the darkness behind his eyes turns deeper and emptier.

When he revives, he remembers it. Buried alive. Holding his breath, trying to quell the terror, the anguish, Jack struggles to open his eyes or move his fingers, maybe dig at some earth or find out if he's in a box or what - he can't move, but there's nothing surrounding him but empty air. _It could be years. Longer. Please, please, not again_ , Jack thinks desperately. His eyes water, wet on his cheeks and he wants to sob but he can't cry. It doesn't matter. He feels life and consciousness leaving and lets it happen.

It's the first thought he has, a thought he's born into - _buried alive_. He tries to relax, knows it'll be over soon, but it hurts and his body floods his veins with adrenaline and his muscles stay unresponsive, his strength useless. Panic rising, Jack focusses hard; on the Doctor, on adventures and Torchwood and-- _god, Ianto_ , and he gives up on calm and acceptance and screams as loud as he can. There's no sound. He's dying again.

 

***

 

Jack is dully aware he's alive again. He's already lost count; he can't keep time between deaths. He knows he's dying and he doesn't care and he's scared shitless at the same time. He might go mad this time, and no matter how mad he gets, he'll keep living, and he'll never have a way to make it stop. His thoughts slowing, Jack thinks it could just be his imagination, but there's something numb in his head that feels like it's about to burst. If it's an aneurysm, Jack wants to laugh - _too late_ , _I'm already dead._

Confused, afraid, Jack wakes again. This time there's a presence in his mind and it's warm, and empty and far away and Jack chases it back, from the pain in his chest, the darkness and claustrophobia.

 _Hello, Freak. Enjoying ourselves?_ it asks.

Jack knows that cold voice and clings onto it desperately, like a drowning child. _Please,_ he begs, as loud as he can in his mind, _stop it, stop, I can't do this again_.

 _Too late_ , the voice replies, _afraid the dose was a little large. Your mind is awful when you die, but don’t worry, I'll be back soon._

 _No, no please!_ Jack cries, clutching onto those last threads of warmth, receding out like the tide. He crashes back into his body, his dying body, and rides it through into blackness.

 _And we're back_ , says the Master, in Jack's head. _The TARDIS is making it very hard for me to dismember you, but don't worry, Freak, I'm very clever. I'll figure it out._

Jack recoils from the intrusion, disoriented, aware of coming back to life again - but in the other direction is crushing and suffocation and terror and he scrabbles for the Master's presence like losing a foothold on a rock face. He chases and chases, but the warm, syrupy comfort of it seems to slip like smoke through his fingers - _please, please don’t leave me, don’t leave_ , Jack calls into the void. He dies trying to find it.

 

***

 

Jack wakes, gasping in the smallest of breaths and he could cry from joy. He tries to move, next, but his limbs still won't respond. _It's okay_ , Jack thinks, _it's okay, we'll get there_. He pants, his chest only taking in the shallowest air and it just isn't enough, Jack wants to _breathe_ and relish the feeling of it.

The panic starts to come back when he realises no matter how hard he tries, he can't make his lungs breathe deep enough, he can't get enough air and he's going to suffocate. Again.

And then the Master's voice returns. _Stupid Freak. Listen when your Master is speaking, or I can give you a second dose and we can try again. Buried alive, that's a good one. I think concrete might be fun, have you ever been drowned in concrete?_

Jack tries to speak, but his voice can't manage anything beyond the hiss of air. Rapidly growing dizzy, Jack repeats _I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry, Master, I'll do better, don't let me die again_ , too desperate for shame.

 _Tough,_ says the Master.

This time, it's harder. This time he can fight for his life, and he does, putting all his strength into something so simple he does it every second of every day, but it's a battle he's quickly losing. The darkness steals him slowly, his muscles stinging with acid and his consciousness fading in and out with each last, urgent breath.

 

***

 

Jack's air comes easier this time. An effort, but he thinks he might be able to keep this up, he thinks he might make it.

_Well done, Freak. Do you want to go again?_

He can speak. It's quiet, and it's slurred, but he can speak. 'Get...get the fuck outta my head.'

A sharp, biting slap lands over his cheek and slams his forehead to the table. Jack's ear rings piercingly.

The warmth leaves his thoughts, leaving grief and echoed terror as he fights for breath. Empty, Jack rallies his courage, and steels himself for whatever's next. He's survived this far and he'll do it again.

'Should I take that as a yes? Leave you to die again, alone this time? Go on, Jack. Tell me you want me to. I've been in that tiny, primitive little mind of yours. I know just how much you'd be lying.'

Gasping shallowly, Jack tries to shake his head, and settles for, 'No, no, I'm sorry, Master. I'm sorry.'

'Good,' the Master replies curtly.

Slowly, Jack regains control over his thoughts. He thinks he can feel a little movement in his extremities. 'I...you said anaesthetic. The hell's that?'

He hears a huff of amusement. 'Anaesthesia, Freak, not analgesia. Don't they teach you language in the fifty-first century?'

 _Now,_ the Master continues, insinuating the words slickly through his thoughts, _let's see how much has worn off._

Jack feels movement across his face, still tilted against the metal top, and cool flesh slides over his jaw until it finds the corner of his lips. Fingertips press into his mouth and play over his tongue, around his teeth, and Jack focusses harder on breathing around them. He tastes old metal and dust.

The Master's knuckles nudge his jaw open wider, his fingers tracing the edges of Jack's molars, his laughter warm and resounding in his mind. Jack wants to fight it off, but doesn't dare. He presses deep into the back of Jack's throat, uncomfortable and forcing him to gag, but Jack's muscles aren't strong enough to expel him, his jaw won't close hard enough to bite. Even as he chokes, he knows; this is old, familiar territory. He's learnt to choose his battles.

Through his skull comes the voice, smooth and rich as honey. _Good boy._

The words become a pressure, a singular spike of white-hot arousal like a javelin down his spinal cord, where it pierces at the base of his spine and makes his cock twitch in his pants. It takes Jack's breath away; harsher and stronger than orgasm, and when it recedes down to a steady, relentless ache he feels himself grow hard.

Gagging, the Master's knuckles trapping his lip against his teeth, Jack manages a twitch of his neck, a shake of his head. The Master's other hand slips beneath his neck and holds him there, wordlessly, his breath cool and fresh over Jack's face. Increasingly unable to suppress it, his erection straining against the fabric of his trousers, a moan bubbles out of Jack's throat.

Beneath the blindfold, Jack screws his eyes shut and tries to ignore it, the conflicting sensations, the relentless urge to _breathe_ he can't quite satisfy, the hard-on that has to be the most spectacular his body has managed in centuries and in the same breath the most utterly unwanted. The Master has taken this from him before, many times, but never like this. Not from inside his head, through his _mind_ \- Jack clamps down on the thought, and tries to remember his training - but he's growing dizzy and he can't seem to think-- and then everything stops.

The hands withdraw, the Master's presence no longer familiar above him. His mind feels strangely raw, empty; the kind he associates with a good, hard fuck. Jack tries to shake his head, clear his thoughts; direct them away from the surging tide of arousal he refuses to acknowledge.

Cool fingertips press at his cheeks, under his eyes, and then the tie is pulled from his forehead and everything turns to red light, blinding even through his eyelids. He hears the sound of cupboards being pulled open; the echo of the noise heavier, bouncing off of tiles.

Forcing his eyes open, squinting against the harsh light, Jack sees they've moved, again. A bathroom, this time; sparkling vivid-white, the Master crouched at the drawers of a vanity.

Jack tugs on his restraints experimentally. He can pull them taut now, and the tightness in his chest has almost gone.

The Master returns, a cheap plastic razor sheathed in one hand and Jack can't tear his eyes away, blinking furiously as they adjust. Lips twisting into a cruel, lazy smile, the Master flicks the guard off the end to expose the blade and hovers over him, his spare hand bracing the opposite side of Jack's jaw.

As soon as the cool touch presses to his skin, Jack feels another bright flare of arousal spread through him and he whimpers, lips pressed together in a grimace, _grateful_ he still can't move and humiliate himself by bucking up against the restraints. He can see sweat, dark and clinging through the fabric of his shirt; he can feel it, cooling on his skin.

'Open wide, Freak,' the Master coos, his thumb nudging Jack's lips apart, still wet. 'That's it, now,' he says, his voice light as he presses the blade between Jack's teeth, 'Bite down.'

Gingerly, Jack does, his breaths coming hard through his nose.

The Master forces his jaw shut with both hands. 'I said, _bite_ ,' he repeats, his eyes dancing with excitement, and Jack's blood freezes just looking at them. He obeys, lips stretched as far away as he can manage from that sharp edge, teeth clamped hard on the perforations in the metal.

One hand still jamming his mouth closed, the Master wraps his fingers around the plastic handle, slow and delicate, and pulls _hard_.

Jack screams unashamedly, the edge slicing the inside of his cheeks, the roof of his mouth, painful beyond anything he'd braced himself for. He can feel it, blood welling up thick and hot and metallic over his tongue and he screams again. The Master fishes between his lips with finger and thumb, withdrawing the naked blade, snapped from its plastic mooring, his skin like sandpaper over Jack's torn mouth.

The blood pools heavily at the back of Jack's throat and he coughs, choking, the movement only stretching split skin over his teeth. He swallows it to keep from suffocating, he refuses to _die_ , again, and fights the urge to retch.

The Master's hand slams his forehead down, the back of his head hitting the table, blood dribbling steadily out the side of his cheek. Horrified, Jack falls silent. His hand is sticky on Jack's head.

'Hmm,' the Master smiles, almost fondly, tracing his finger up the side of Jack's chin and catching the thick stream of blood. He releases Jack's head, wandering down to his trousers where Jack's erection has disappeared almost entirely. Jack watches him grasp the waistband firmly with one hand and rip the fabric with the other, the tip of the razor blade parting the cloth like butter, as if he's in a dream. It feels unreal, his body not his own.

His pants are next. Jack is barely aware of the air against his naked skin, his attention a singular pinpoint on the warm blood leaking from his mouth. The Master catches it with the points of his fingers and Jack starts to shiver.

Wet, sticky fingertips slip between his legs, find his opening and press their way inside. Jack realises, horribly, he's going to be raped with his own blood. The Master's fingers slide fully in and pull back out, slow, fucking him shallowly. Jack feels nothing at all.

His mind is floating, quiet and empty. He lets it drift into that warm place the Master has claimed as his own, and there he finds comfort; the pain dulled, the table pleasantly cool against his clammy skin. Slowly, steadily, he feels pain and fear give way to arousal and the gentle pleasure of the Master's fingers rubbing inside him with precision.

Jack is hardly even aware of it when he's enveloped by the Master's steady fist, working its way easily over him, his climax nothing but a gentle unwinding of tension.

He can't feel it, when the razor slices deep into his thigh. His blood soaks through the remainder of his clothes, pooling along sluices milled into the table he lays strapped to. All too soon his awareness gently fades and he hands himself into death.

 

***

 

Jack wakes, cold and naked, to metal beneath his back and drying blood sticking over his limbs and neck. The room is dark, lit eerily with blue fluorescent strips, but the gloomy light is enough to cast shadows across all four, cramped walls. His limbs shake with leftover adrenaline, but he finds them responsive and no longer restrained. The light blinks into full power as he swings his legs over the table.

It smells; of blood, acrid and metallic in the air, of sweat and dead flesh. Jack shivers and wonders how long he's been here.

Feet bare, he hoists himself down to the tiled floor, the wall beside him taking on the appearance of Torchwood Three's morgue. Jack hesitates, fingers brushing a drawer's handle, equal parts hopeful and terrified of what the TARDIS might have conjured behind it.

Then there's a knock on a door behind him he didn’t realise existed, and Jack looks down at his dirty body and panics.

'Jack? Are you in here?' calls the Doctor's voice, directed through the crack in the jamb.

'Er, yeah, I'm just--' Jack replies, voice dry and hoarse, 'Changing.'

The door cracks open. 'Oh, come on, you're not shy, are you?'

Then the Doctor is face to face with him - and Jack finds the table replaced with a couch, the flooring white-clean, his body groomed and clothed in a shirt and trousers. He breathes silent thanks to the TARDIS. _But is she trying to protect me, or him?_

'I haven't seen you in days,' the Doctor admits, 'I was getting worried about you. After the...well.'

Jack bites his lip fiercely, hands curled into fists. 'Really, I'm fine. I've just been taking things easy.'

The Doctor nods sincerely enough for Jack to be satisfied. He peers around at the morgue, glancing sceptically at the ceiling. 'Bit morbid, isn't it? I wouldn't worry, I'd say he's just trying to scare you.'

'The Master?' Jack asks, blinking his vision clear. 'What about him?'

The Doctor smirks, eyeing Jack up and down. 'You, disappeared for days, changing in his room - not that I'm complaining, believe me, I'm really glad you're getting along. I shouldn't be surprised by now when it comes to you, huh.'

'No,' Jack says, jaw slack, 'I'd never - you know I wouldn't, he _killed_ me. _Hundreds_ of times, for fun. Do you really think…?' He trails off, unable to even listen to himself say it.

'I'm sorry,' says the Doctor, solemn a moment, 'I don't judge you. You know that, right?'

'Whatever you say,' Jack replies, wanting desperately to be alone, to relive Ianto's final forgiveness until he runs out of tears to cry with, until it doesn't _hurt_.

The Doctor chews his lip, looking away. 'He...he isn't, you know, hurting you, is he?' He licks his lips. 'Back on the planet. He means well these days, but he still gets it wrong or has to make a point - I just don't want you to be in the firing line.' Hesitating, the Doctor adds, 'You know, he was the one who found you, locked on to the trace of your vortex manipulator. It's just the noise in his head, he...if he does something, you have to tell me.'

And Jack stares at him, mouth open, not knowing whether to punch the Doctor or hug him - and then he's crying, sobbing, and he can't stop.

The Doctor is there, pulling him tight. He cradles him in his arms, guiding them both to the floor, and lets Jack cry into his waist. 'Oh, Jack. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm here.' He grips the fabric of the Doctor's jacket and howls, so many words he's wanted to say suddenly boiling over but he can't stop sobbing long enough to get them out.

'I loved him,' Jack manages, the one clear thought he can't get rid of, 'And I fucked it up.'

The Doctor's fingers trail through his hair, cool and gentle. 'It wasn't your fault.'

Jack wipes his eyes, fingers pressed there as if he can stem the tears like he would blood. 'Months, Doctor. He said we were gone months. How could you just skip that? Without noticing?'

'Sometimes it's my fault. Sometimes the TARDIS does it under her safety protocols when the spacetime route is unstable. Sometimes...I run away,' the Doctor admits. 'Wasn't the case that time. Probably my fault.'

Jack stays silent, weighing up the information.

The Doctor returns the look, like he's weighing up a thought of his own. 'You, Rose, Martha...I-I love each and every one of you, I always have. And every time I meet you, I know I'm just counting down days until you're gone. I even cheat, I go back when I'm not supposed to. But there's never going to be enough days. I run out, and I can't make more,' the Doctor says quietly, his hand stroking along Jack's shoulders. 'I have the TARDIS, but that's something I have to live with.' A heavy pause. 'You know I would do anything to get him back.'

'Not me,' Jack murmurs, 'I'll outlive even you.'

'I thought it would make it different,' the Doctor says, 'It just makes it harder. I don't ever want to be the reason you're hurting like this.'

Shaking, Jack holds back another fit of sobs. 'You already have been, you have, I'm so sick of waiting for you--'

The Doctor presses a kiss to his hair. 'I know. I'm sorry. Like I said, I'm here.'

Jack's fingers find his and squeeze, the Doctor gripping his hand in return. They stay there, embraced, until Jack's breathing calms and his eyes stop blurring with each spare moment. In the Doctor's arms, safe and loved, he can make peace with Ianto. At least for the time.

This is his home, now. His past and his future. He'll defend it until the stars stop burning.

He's stiff when he finally lets go, his fingers freezing cold and cramped. The Doctor smiles down at him, bittersweet. He gets to his feet and offers a hand for the Doctor, until they're left at their parting moment; face to face, heart to hearts.

'And you're okay, aren't you?' the Doctor says as he's about to leave, the careful peering of his eyes suggesting exactly what Jack wants most to hide.

Jack steels himself, grins, and says, 'Yep.'

 

 

By the time he's walking back aimlessly through the corridors, the pain seems dulled. The small spark of hope for the Doctor he'd clung on to during their time on Uthestra Minor is a salve, a reminder that he hasn't quite lost everything.

He senses the Master before he sees him; a gentle press against his mind, dark colours and rich scents. Once upon a time he'd steel himself for a fight, stand his ground. Now he just lets his consciousness withdraw and drops his gaze.

Hands slide over his shirt from behind and slam him bodily into the left wall. Jack lets it happen.

The Master drags one fingernail down the back of Jack's neck, hooking it into his collar, almost certainly just because he can. 'Aww, no fun today, Freak? Still broken-hearted?'

Silence. The finger presses to his temple and Jack shivers at the slick intrusion; the sensation of being trapped between the Master's cool body and the TARDIS's wall morphing into something heavy and deliciously tight. He feels warmth building in his groin and the press of open, inviting heat against his hips and gasps when he recognises the dissonance between what he senses and what he feels. The sensations aren't his own and they send his nerves into proprioceptive vertigo.

'Ah, stoic then,' the Master tuts, 'Protecting your dear Doctor? _First comes love, then comes marriage_ , is that your endgame? Been there, done that. Difference is, you've given up everything along the way. What's left when you find out all those silly little values of his come first?' A hand slips around to the front of his trousers, palming him roughly through the material.

Jack stays still, unresponsive to the touch. 'Yeah. Fine. Get it over with.'

This is it, then. The other half of the bargain.

Suddenly, his mind goes blank, his weight collapsing onto knees he didn't realise were trembling. The Master's voice comes as cool air hissed over his neck. 'Think about it. Would I really have let this happen if I wasn't putting you _right_ where I wanted you?'

Jack closes his eyes, teeth gritted, while the footsteps fade off into the hall. Just another mind-game. But that's where the Master is dangerous, he plays them better than most.

Losing himself amongst the corridors, the TARDIS sending him through private baths and silent drawing rooms, Jack has time to think. He feels like a trapped rat being baited, caught in a standoff with his own inevitable death. Hunger or poison; one way or another, he's the architect of his own demise.

Jack wanders into a small study. It's barely big enough for a desk and swivel chair, a seventies-era clock ticking loudly atop the TARDIS's hum. He runs the Master's words over in his head: _right where I wanted you._ He gets the feeling that's where he's been from the second he stepped foot aboard the TARDIS.

A leather jacket is draped over the chair, old and worn. Jack stiffens and seats himself on the floor; cold concrete topped with old lino styled like marble tiles.

The Master doesn't care about him beyond his toy, something to play with when he's bored. It's all about the Doctor. Jack figured out as much in that year, forced to watch or ignored for months at a time. Whatever he and the Doctor have, the Master wants to use it against him, not Jack.

Jack's fingers trace over the jacket, the sensation sparking old memories still fresh with both joy and hurt. Values, the Master had said. Waiting for Jack to overstep those boundaries, break the Doctor's heart, betray him. Maybe that's all this is, applying enough pressure, pushing Jack hard enough that he lashes out - drives the Doctor back to where he was when Jack first came aboard. Alone, afraid. Punishing himself.

In the corner of the study, the clock marking off seconds, Jack smirks to himself. Fucking idiot. It's the same game he's been playing since the Valiant and he still hasn't learnt his lesson. Jack won't betray the Doctor. Unconditional love, selflessness, Jack doubts the Master even knows what they are.

Maybe that's his ace. He'll do anything for the Doctor and nothing the Master can do will change that.

( _Especially now.)_

 

***

 

'Come on, you pick,' the Doctor urges, waving a handful of discs under Jack's nose. ' _Finding Nemo_? _The Fellowship of the Ring_? Or are you with the Master,' he adds disdainfully, tossing a copy of _Pulp Fiction_ on top of Jack's lap.

Jack raises his hands, bemused. 'I don't mind, honestly. Got anything from my era?'

The Doctor thinks. 'Well. I just have what the others bring aboard. You're the first from the fifty-first century, so I doubt it.'

Jack shrugs, nudging the Doctor's shoulder with his forehead. 'Anything you like. Surprise us.'

He turns his head sharply away in that way Jack's come to recognise means _flustered_. ' _Right_. Yes. See you in ten?'

Feeling brave, Jack raises his eyebrows and gives his trademark grin. 'Any reason you have to get going so soon?'

'I, I…' the Doctor starts, then sighs. Turning back to him, Jack's surprised to see a fond smile set across his face. 'Not really. No. Any reason you want me to stay?'

Jack slips his hand into the Doctor's. 'Nope.'

They sit, the Doctor's fingers squeezing his gently in return. Their silence is no longer awkward, but familiar. Jack is content just to feel the Doctor's body beside his, solid and reassuring, the growing ease with which he shares Jack's space.

Getting to his feet, Jack gives the Doctor's hand a friendly tug. 'Come on. _Pulp Fiction_ it is.'

 

 

The cinema is decked out like a regular living room; windows opening to a dark, grassy landscape, a shelf of books and discs built over one wall, a projector screen stretched over the other. The Master sits on one half of a battered loveseat, idly tapping his fingers on the armrest.

The Doctor seems to forget about him the second he sees the spare spot, his eyes locking with the Master's and gleaming in a way Jack wishes belonged to him. He sits in the middle of the couch, his skinny body pressed to the Master, eyeing the small foot of space left to his right and looking up at Jack.

No. He's used to it by now, he's accepted the place the Master will always occupy in the Doctor's heart. But like hell does he want to sit and watch it happen beside him. Jack chooses the most comfortable cushion and places himself by the Doctor's feet, legs outstretched.

'Have you been training the Freak, too?' the Master asks, eyes mock-wide.

The Doctor shoots him a hard look, and says, 'Master. Just stop it.'

'I'm sorry,' Jack hears the Master say, voice low and soft, 'Jack. I don’t mean it.'

It's what they agreed on. And still, Jack hates him a hundred times more for saying it.

 

 

Jack loses interest in the movie early on. It's not that he wouldn't enjoy it, but his mind is numb. The Doctor's hand has slipped into the Master's, where Jack's was just an hour ago, and he doesn't care. He can't banish Ianto from his head, he still can't understand how he's...gone. While they travel through the Vortex, he isn't anything; gone, or here, or dead, or alive. He isn't dead. But Ianto knew he loved the Doctor, and it didn't matter what century or society he was born into. He didn't care.

Uma Thurman orders steak, bloody, and five dollars worth of milk and ice cream. Jack remembers when a milkshake cost fifteen cents.

Behind him, the shadows shift and he hears the Doctor shift on the couch. His maroon Converse catch Jack's peripheral vision, his body angling to lean against the Master's.

Jack glares determinedly at the screen.

Well-worn pop culture references come and go, and Jack spares a huff of laughter. The characters slip into awkward silence. And that's when it starts.

He feels the Master's feet shifting near his hands, where his body is braced upright on the cushion. Annoyed, Jack moves his fingers away and slides backwards, resting his back against the Doctor's legs instead.

Slowly, moving so carefully he could have been a statue, the Master's shoe creeps towards his hip. Jack crosses his legs decisively, the Doctor glancing down at him and taking his feet aside in turn, and the Master's heel presses down hard into the crease of Jack's thigh.

Jack stills, obediently, and the three of them are quiet for another while.

Only the Doctor doesn't laugh when Uma Thurman mistakes Vincent's bag of heroin and snorts it. On screen, everything goes hilariously wrong. And the Master's foot slips between Jack's thighs, hooking it up where Jack's body is freshly remade.

Jack stops watching.

He rocks the heel of his shoe, gentle and insistent, until Jack's arousal stirs and he twitches sharply. The Master responds with pressure vicious enough that Jack's eyes water, but the shift of the Doctor's body is far worse punishment.

Jack stiffens, his breathing fast and shallow, palms wedged into the carpet. It doesn't stop.

The stimulation is precise and clinical, like Jack is some lab animal held out and prodded while a machine measures his vitals. There's something personal about torture, a necessary appreciation of what you want to destroy. Jack's world narrows down to nylon sweating under his fingertips, the rushing of blood he can't help but fight and the point of contact it seeks. The voices and colours on the screen blur, but he could set his watch by the slow press of leather at the base of his cock. It's equally maddening and unsettling.

Teeth set against each other, in minutes Jack can't help the way his breath catches along his throat. He's hard and he knows the Doctor could tell with just a glance; his heart pounding visibly through his shirt, his posture strained with the effort of keeping statue-still.

Inhaling through his nose, Jack fights a wince at the hard edge of the Master's heel digging against his suddenly hypersensitive flesh. He shifts quietly, a silent warning that this is _enough_ , when he feels that cold spike at the base of his skull invade and slither around his conscious mind.

_Shut up, and if you don't stay still I'll turn the lights on._

Jack physically _gags_ on the intrusion and expels the words from his mind, squeezing his eyes tight shut. He retreats to a tiny, black place in his head the ever-more intrusive arousal threatens to breach.

This isn't a game anymore. Sickly, Jack realises it feels different than sacrificing himself - for punishment, for loyalty, whatever kept him stubbornly intact. He doesn't want this. He didn't choose it.

Angry, tamping down panic as he feels an orgasm start to wind in his stomach, Jack stifles a shudder of both pleasure and revulsion and prays this is over quickly, even as he fights it. He never wants the Doctor to see this.

Feeling his pants grow sticky and damp, Jack grimaces, hidden by the dark of the projector. He hates the Master for letting him be able to stop this, he could shove him away, he could yelp and let the Doctor see - and with a heaviness in his chest that aches like a sob, he knows he could have equally told the Doctor the first time the Master killed him, on all those nameless opportunities that were too wrong, too soon, too inconvenient, _too hard_.

But he didn't. Because the Doctor is holding the Master's hand, a far-away smile on his face as his eyes drift across the movie, his limbs still tight from running for their lives and Jack's lips imprinted in his memory. And for the first time in a century, in that whole, lonely _nightmare_ of a year, Jack is so close to everything he's ever wanted.

Jack just wants this to be over. He closes his eyes and chases his orgasm, like the Master wants, forcing his brain to anticipate and sing for every little nudge of sensation, and inhales suddenly and bites his lip when he comes weak and sticky over the inside of his pants.

His face uncomfortably warm and eyes stinging, Jack tries to ignore the drying come, the hollow feeling where it was forced from him. The movie does not end for a very, very long time.

 

***

 

That night, Jack wakes aboard the Valiant. The droning hum of the engines is like a funeral march, the air heavy with grease and steel.

There's pain, and plenty of it; smarting in his wrists, where metal rubs sweat into his wounds, a constant ache down his shoulder blades and calves long faded into white noise. He's numbed to it, but panic still shoots through his veins. _Alone. Trapped._

His heart thumps uselessly, sweat pricking his back where the rags of his shirt already cling drenched to his skin. The blood thunders behind his eyes and swirls around his stomach.

A spasm of agony strikes deep at the base of his ribcage, caustic and cramping. Jack hunches over as best the chains will allow him, panting. It'll pass. He chews his lip and the dry blood there tastes like cured ham and salty hot chips and his mouth positively waters at the thought of them.

There's an old, dry patch of vomit between his feet. He stares at the little chunks of food, crusted at the edges and still wet in the centre, so desperately hungry he'd lick it off the ground if he could reach.

Jack starts, his ears searching for the soft rhythm of footsteps - and an uncontrollable grin splits his lip. _Tish!_ He wriggles in his chains, flipping his hair out of his eyes and standing tall for her. He's not even ashamed to be excited.

One look at her face tells him all he needs to know; cautiously smiling, her eyes filtered up through her eyelashes. She meets his eyes and pulls a cheese sandwich out from down her shirt and Jack just stares at her, bug-eyed.

'Sorry there isn't more, I'll try again at dinner,' Tish says, her voice soft and hushed.

Jack wants to kiss her, but he knows he looks like shit and probably smells even worse. 'Thanks,' he rasps, but it's _food_ , _real food_ and he can already smell it in the air. 'You have no idea how amazing this is, I mean it.'

She feeds him patiently, forcing him to take small mouthfuls while Jack is torn between wolfing it down as fast as he can and making it last all day. The sandwich that seemed like a banquet is woefully inadequate once he's finished it. He feels hungrier than when he started, but grateful all the same.

Tish carries a damp rag and rubs it over his forehead, at the back of his neck and over his face. Jack closes his eyes and leans into the touch, hoping his body says what his voice wouldn't manage without breaking.

And all too soon, the unmistakeable _click_ of Italian leather echoes down the gangway and the fall of heavy boots behind it.

'Go,' Jack hisses, ' _go_.'

Her face twisted with fear, she skitters away, and Jack tries to pretend he's any less scared.

He finds a point on the wall ahead and to his left and stares, nostrils flaring, tells himself he won't react, he won't look. And yet the second black fabric and leather gloves slide into his vision, Jack's eyes lock on as his weakened body prepares for a fight it'll never even have the chance for.

The Master's eyes flick over him, his lip curling. Jack sees a flash of teeth before his hand comes to shield his mouth and nose.

Jack tries, but he can't meet those eyes, amused and repulsed and fiercely excited all at once.

'Where is she?' he says, the hand dropping so Jack can see his teeth snap together at the end of his syllables.

Inhaling shakily, Jack raises his head and looks him dead in the eyes. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

The Master's eyebrows shoot upwards. He grasps Jack's chin with one hand, pulling his body forwards against the chains until their faces are almost touching. Jack winces, instinctively, trying to turn away. He smells of fine coffee and luxury fragrance and nothing like death and filth and machine oil.

'I don't ask twice,' the Master warns, peering down into Jack's face.

'Fuck you,' Jack says, and spits.

At first, Jack is confused, because the Master simply lets go, steps back and wipes his cheek -

_And everything goes terribly wrong._

When Jack looks up, Tish is held there by two guards, screaming with her eyes wide and wet, and a semi automatic aimed at her chest. 'Please, Jack, please--'

Horrified, Jack stares between her and the Master. 'Wait, hold on, it's not her fault--'

The Master flicks two fingers and the soldier holding the gun lowers the barrel; down, to her knees. Tish shakes her head, mute. A single, agonising moment stretches between Jack and the Master, and then he smiles ever so slowly, and the gunshots ring out.

Jack's seen a lot of things, but the sight of shards of bone pierced through mangled flesh is--is…

'I did it, I asked her,' gasps Jack, 'It's me you should be shooting.'

'Are you ordering _me_?' the Master asks, incredulous. He shakes his head.

There's one final shot. Jack feels, rather than hears, the slump of Tish's body against the ground.

And he wakes up, drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted around his still-clothed body and Ianto's room dark. Jack pants, harshly, gasping air as if he'd been suffocating. He drags himself upright. His chest hurts, his shirt wringing wet.

He turns and comes face to face with the Master, and almost shrieks.

The Master frowns, taking a step back. 'Come on, Freak.'

Something isn't right, here. Jack shakes the sleep out of his head, and _there_ \- that sound. The cloister bell.

'What's going on?' Jack demands, swinging his legs onto the floor.

'Daleks,' the Master says, a strange expression on his face Jack's never seen before. 'Hurry up.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Could have been worse, Jack. You could have picked Lord of the Rings.)
> 
> I know you're never going to believe this but I wrote the first half of this long before S8 of Doctor Who aired, and then the same scenario happens - ack! I promise if I get any more telepathic insight into what the Moff has planned, I'll let you know.


	11. III: Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things lose their meaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! Hope the wait hasn't been too unbearable, I've had a lot of fun writing and with some luck you folks will enjoy this update as much as I did. Thank you all SO much for your lovely comments and feedback, there's no way I'd have kept going for so long without you. 
> 
> I'm just going to add a warning for this chapter that while the violence doesn't escalate much beyond what you've already seen, the descriptions get heavier, and this chapter also makes a couple of references to suicide. Mostly these occur in more of a practical sense than an emotional one, but suicidal ideation is touched upon.

Something in the Master's eye has Jack on his feet without second thoughts. He inhales deeply through his nose and clears his mind, how he was taught, and thinks clearly of a fresh shirt and his greatcoat. The Master hardly spares a glance as his clothes are replaced, jerking his head from the doorway for Jack to follow.

The Master sets a brisk, urgent pace, Jack taking two or more steps at a time to catch up. His heels snap along the floors, out of time with the tolling of the bell.

'Daleks? Are you sure?' Jack hazards, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

The Master glances behind them, not breaking stride. 'Take a look on the monitor, you can see for yourself.'

'How? They were dead, all of them,' Jack insists. He watches the Master's face for any kind of clue, but he glares purposefully forwards, giving nothing away.

Jack realises they're walking further away from the console room, the sound of the bell.

'I'll bet that's what he told you about the Time Lords, too,' the Master mutters, and tries a door.

The room appears as a plain, blank cube, the emergency lighting glowing in and out with the cloister bell. Wary, Jack takes the door handle before the Master has a chance to shut it. 'So what do you want with me?'

'We stopped to refuel,' the Master says, pausing to frown at Jack's sudden glower, 'Not Cardiff. The Medusa Cascade, another Rift. And there are twenty-two planets, in complete gravitic inertia with each other, clustered in spacetime around it.'

'No collapse?' Jack echoes, trying to wrap his head around all those astrophysics lessons he hardly remembers. 'No _orbit_?'

The Master nods. 'Out of sync with each other, just slightly, in time. Time Lord technology, but not how I've ever seen it used.'

Jack's jaw drops. 'Do you mean, do you mean...the War? It's here?'

He barks a harsh laugh, folding his arms over his chest. 'No. Just the Daleks. An entire fleet of them.'

Jack thinks back to the Dalek Emperor, to that very first death. His mouth suddenly dry, he swallows and shoves his hands in his pockets. 'What do we do?'

The Master looks away, scowling. 'Your idiot Doctor wants to _save_ them. Like it'll make him somehow forgiven for wiping them from time and space the first time. Me, I say blow them all to hell while they're weak.'

'Me too,' agrees Jack.

He smiles knowingly. 'Ah, no wonder he never agreed with Torchwood. You see, this is Christmas to him. All that regret for what he did and the Universe gives him a second chance.'

Cringing, Jack nods. He lets out a long breath, the cloister bell growing ever-more pervasive. 'Are we in danger?'

The Master raises his eyebrows, stifling a laugh like it's the best joke he's heard all day. 'Deaf in your old age, Freak? We're being pulled aboard the Dalek ship.'

'They caught us?'

'Some of the later models,' the Master continues, hand over his eyes, 'the Type 80s and the like, had good enough shielding we could have landed _inside_ the flagship and had tea out the front. But this fossil? Detected the second we materialised, trapped in a chronon loop, everything deactivated.'

'Both,' Jack says suddenly, mind working furiously to take this in. 'Can you do both.'

'Both _what_ , Freak? Pat my head and rub my belly?' the Master snaps, fingers twitching.

Jack thinks he's glad he can't die, because he's going to hell.

'Kill them and make the Doctor think he's saved them.'

The Master falls silent. The bell tolls, and then again.

Jack chews the inside of his cheek, searching him with an expression he'd thought only the Doctor would ever see. _Please._

'Yes. Yes, I could,' the Master says slowly, tasting the words around his mouth. His eyes glint hard and bright as rough diamond. ' _Naughty_ boy.'

Grinning, feeling the thrill of a good fight prickle down his back, Jack looks up through his eyelashes and says deliberately, 'If that's what you want.'

'Deal,' says the Master, 'Now hurry up.'

 

***

 

'Jack!' the Doctor shouts, glancing up from the controls, both hands tugging through his hair. 'We don't have much time, we're being dragged aboard a Dalek ship--'

Jack takes stock of the situation. He can hardly hear the Doctor, hardly see his features in the shadow of the console's emergency red. 'I know,' he cuts in, nodding his head towards the Master.

The Doctor's eyes meet the Master's, the blaring of the TARDIS's alarms suddenly forgotten. The moment stretches. 'Good,' he says, and swings the monitor around. 'There's at least a thousand ships, and then there's _this_.'

Jack pulls himself closer and squints at the screen. 'What _is_ that? Another planet?'

The Master laughs, harsh and hysterical. 'That's no planet, Freak. That's the Dalek mothership.'

The Doctor looks at him grimly. 'Shit,' Jack says.

He closes his eyes briefly. A ship the size of a planet, a Dalek fleet enhanced with Time Lord technology, and all they have is an old TARDIS and a sonic screwdriver.

'What's the plan?' asks the Master for him, resting his hand across the Doctor's where it grips a lever.

'Well,' says the Doctor, 'well.' He glances at the Master's fingers gripping his. 'We land, probably on the bridge, somewhere important, and…'

'And?' Jack prompts, jaw set.

'I come up with the rest of the plan?' the Doctor hedges, 'Oh, hold on--'

The TARDIS lurches violently and Jack has to clutch the Doctor's arm to stay upright. The Master is already halfway through the door. 'I have a better idea.'

'What?' says the Doctor flatly, 'A bomb? Because if you're thinking--'

'Actually,' the Master says, with all of the Doctor's cheek and none of the anger familiar to Jack, 'I was. A dimensional shift bomb.'

Jack looks back and forth between them, his grip tightening.

'Oh. _Oh_. That's good,' the Doctor grins, 'that's brilliant!'

'Pocket universe,' nods the Master knowingly, his grin matching the Doctor's.

Looking up, the Doctor snaps his fingers. 'Set it to catch the whole fleet, long as the TARDIS still has their signature…'

'Will one of you explain what a dimension bomb is?' Jack cuts over them.

The Doctor waves his hand. 'Sends matter to another dimensional plane. Usually multiple, if you want something destroyed. Old tech, we invented it long before the war.'

'Or,' says the Master, by way of explanation, 'You could send matter to a pocket dimension and seal it.'

'And the Daleks can create whatever kind of empire they like, away from the rest of the universe,' the Doctor adds.

'What if they figure out a way to escape? Come back?' Jack demands, bracing himself through another shudder of the ship's walls.

'There's no time,' the Doctor yells, 'I've got one in the library, should be easy to find.'

The Master nods, once, and disappears in the darkness of the hallways. Without him, the console room feels strangely quiet.

'Jack,' the Doctor says suddenly, placing his hands on his shoulders. 'We don't have long. I'd never ask you to do this, but I don't have much choice.'

'Anything,' Jack says without hesitation, 'That's why I'm here.'

'I need you to plant it in the centre of the ship. I've seen ones like this before, there should be a central control bridge.' The Doctor places three fingers aside his temple and floods his brain with sudden knowledge; the interior of the Dalek ship, the hidden passageways and service routes. But Jack catches something else - the flash of a Dalek gun, the smell of seared flesh. His own screaming.

The Doctor pulls his hand away as if burnt. 'I'm sorry. You're the only one who can do it.'

Before Jack can respond, the Master returns, a small glass cylinder in one hand. 'Piece of cake. I do think she's forgiven me, Doctor.'

The Doctor gives him a hard look. Then the TARDIS goes dark. The cloister bell tolls, the red glow of the console the only light left in the room.

Jack takes the bomb. 'What about you, Doctor?' Beyond the doors, Jack can hear a chorus of synthesised Dalek voices. He can't tell how many are waiting outside.

The Doctor swallows. 'I'm going to give them a chance. I have to.'

'You can't be serious,' scoffs the Master. 'At least let me come with you.'

The Doctor shakes his head. 'Please, Master.' He takes his hand and presses it to the TARDIS's console. 'There's nobody I trust to do this more than you.'

The Master's eyes grow visibly wide, his fingers curling possessively around the controls. 'Me? You're giving her to _me_?'

'I've given you an exception to the isomorphic lock. I need someone here, on the inside.' The Doctor pauses, licking his lips. 'I know you'll do the right thing, if it comes to that.'

Jack holds his breath. There's no way the Doctor doesn't see it too; the way the Master's pulse thrums in his neck, his composure slipping. Even Jack can see the possibilities dancing before his eyes, at his fingertips, the temptation to leave them and run. And what use is Jack's body, his suffering - a fleeting distraction, at best - against that?

Weapon fire resounds against the TARDIS doors like thunder. Jack doesn't dare to move, hoping against hope that he's done enough, that the Master won't betray them. He thinks the Doctor may very well take himself down with the Daleks if the Master leaves him. (Again.)

'Time's up,' says the Doctor. Hands up, he shoulders open the doors, and as soon as the Daleks converge around him, Jack closes his eyes and runs.

He doesn't make it.

 

 

Jack wakes to an empty, circular hall, both Daleks and TARDIS nowhere in sight. Picking himself up off the floor, he's just going to hope that the Master hasn't left him for dead.

There's a control panel to his right, just like the Doctor showed him. He kicks it away to reveal a corridor just big enough to crawl through lined with wires and piping. Grimacing, Jack gets to his hands and knees and slides out of sight, entering deeper into the ship. He realises he has one advantage on their side; the Daleks haven't figured out he can't die. An advanced race like the Daleks, he imagines he'll only be able to fool them a couple of times.

The shaft is eerily quiet, as Jack crawls along. No gunfire, no Dalek voices. It's unnerving to be in the midst of a battle only to find the battlefield silent, dormant. Even in the trenches, there were always shells, the echoes of shots in the air.

He comes to a dead end, and has to backtrack. No room to turn around, Jack shuffles backwards in the near-darkness and takes a different turn.

The Doctor could already be dead by now.

The shaft eventually joins a wider, taller service passage, big enough for a Dalek to fit through. Jack gets to his feet, creeping in the shadows and sticking close to the wall. Grime coats his fingers, the cuff of his shirt where he braces one hand on the side of the passage.

He sees the eyestalk of a Dalek and freezes.

' _INTRUDER! PREPARE TO BE EXTERMINATED!'_

Jack grits his teeth. 'Come on and kill me, then!' He steps into the light and sees only the burst of energy, then--

 

 

He gulps in air. The passage is quiet, the Dalek gone. Good. He hasn't been captured. Hissing, Jack picks himself up and staggers back into the shadows.

He quickly reaches the end of the corridor, his route abruptly blocked by a sealed door. Fumbling at the edge, Jack's fingers run over a faintly embossed dome. He places his palm over the impression and presses firmly.

The door slides open, entering into a large hexagonal room like the one the TARDIS was taken to. Jack tenses, but the room is empty.

Halfway there.

Six hallways adjoin the room and Jack hesitates on which one he needs to take. He deliberates between two corridors that look absolutely identical and picks the one on the left out of gut instinct, and freezes as he sees four Daleks roll by ahead of him.

They haven't seen him. At least, he thinks they haven't until he hears more come from behind him, and finds himself surrounded.

' _CAPTAIN HARKNESS! KNOWN ASSOCIATE OF THE DOCTOR! YOU WILL BE EXTERMINATED!'_

'Wait, hold on, you don't know--' Jack starts, and dives to the floor as an energy beam flies over his head. The next one hits him on his ankle and he _sees_ his bones glowing through his skin. He marvels at it for a split-second, his muscles seizing across his whole body, his vision sparking into grey.

 

 

Wrists bound with cord, dragged by his shoulders between two Daleks, Jack gasps in a breath. He doesn't recognise this part of the ship. It's warm, like the depths of the TARDIS's failing engines. They don't seem surprised he's revived, nor do they bother killing him again - which means Jack's lost his ace.

Squirming, Jack tries to feel the smooth rod of the bomb in his coat. It's gone.

'Where are you taking me?' Jack demands, wrists pulling against his bonds. They're poorly tied, the knots loosening as Jack strains against them. The Daleks don't answer him, and Jack wonders if they're used to taking prisoners, if they've ever faced something their guns couldn't kill, couldn't intimidate.

Jack pulls gently at the rubber cord, grabbing its length in his fingertips so it doesn't drop from his wrists. His feet brush the floor, the metal tiles speeding by beneath him.

The Daleks stop. Jack raises his head, finding himself in a large control room--the central control area the Doctor wanted him to find. The same control area where the TARDIS stands, lights extinguished, and the Doctor on his knees before something half-man, half-Dalek, staring back.

'Doctor,' Jack gasps, 'I'm sorry, I couldn't…'

The Doctor shakes his head, mouth an angry gash across his face.

The Dalek mutant raises its head, eyes sunken and closed-over, its third glowing eye fixed on the Doctor. 'We will destroy you, Doctor,' it says, a human voice in Dalek cadence, 'but first, behold as we destroy that most precious to you. Take the human to the Doctor's TARDIS. Open the Crucible.'

With a jerk, the two Daleks drag Jack away, and he realises they're going to take down the TARDIS with him inside it. And then they'll shoot the Doctor, and maybe he'd regenerate, but then what?

Jack shrugs off his bonds and tears his body from the Daleks, sprinting towards the Doctor's crouched form. He gets two seconds of grace as the Daleks realise he's escaped.

' _Run!_ ' Jack bellows, snatching the Doctor's elbow and jerking him to his feet. Shielding the Doctor with his body, Jack dodges gun blasts and hurls him through the TARDIS doors, tripping over their feet and scrambling to pull himself inside. The Doctor takes his hand and hauls him over the threshold, slamming the doors shut, and they collapse there, chests heaving.

The Master stands at the console, fingertip poised over a lever. 'Time to detonate?'

'No,' Jack shouts, 'we didn't make it--'

A deafening crash shakes the walls of the TARDIS, the Doctor and Jack shielding their heads as the window glass shatters. Jack scrabbles backwards, towards the console, _flames_ licking the TARDIS's woodwork and blasting searing heat inside. Another _crash_ sends sparks showering away from the central column, the Master jerking back, both hands steadying a large throw-switch.

'Doctor,' the Master says, 'What in Rassilon's name have you done.'

'It's a--we're being jettisoned, into the engine core of the Dalek mothership,' the Doctor splutters, staring in dumb horror as the TARDIS shakes itself apart. 'The planets, it's all a giant engine, and this is the centre.'

'An engine for what?' Jack shouts, _refusing_ to think of the possibility that they could both die, and he, he would be…

'There's no power, Doctor,' the Master says, severe and resolute, 'No defence. Whatever it is, we're dead if we can't use that dimension bomb.'

The Doctor doesn't look at either of them. 'Even if we did, we're dead. The engine--the Crucible--it's powering a reality bomb. Wipe out all of time and space except for the Dalek ship. Every universe, every dimension. That's what the Daleks are planning.'

A strut crumbles, and falls to the floor, showering Jack in brick dust. 'What do we do!' he yells, grabbing the Doctor's sleeve.

'I know what to do,' comes the Master's voice, quiet over the chaos. 'The reality bomb was my weapon. I designed it.'

The Doctor, finally, looks. 'You did _what_?'

Eyes closed, the Master turns his back to the console. 'In the Time War. I told you, they brought me back from the Matrix. A full thirteen regenerations. And in return I gave them weapons, among other things.'

'You can explain later,' the Doctor growls, the old hard edge in his voice. 'How do we stop it?'

Sitting on the console, the Master crosses his arms, flinching as a piece of TARDIS coral lands on his shoulder. 'Can't be stopped. Not once it's activated.'

'Come on!' the Doctor yells, dragging both hands through his hair. 'Ah! There has to be _something_ , a back door, you'd never build anything without some kind of failsafe! Master, _please_.'

Grinning in that particular, unhinged way, the Master laughs, 'I didn’t exactly have the choice.'

Breathing heavily, Jack bites his lip. 'Every universe. Where does that leave me, Doctor?'

Both Time Lords look at him. 'Don't know,' says the Doctor.

A blast rocks the TARDIS, the fire catching hold of the wiring on the floor, the lights in the walls.

'Dead,' offers the Master, 'The reality bomb destroys time, not only space.'

The destruction, the chaos drop away, out of Jack's insides like vertigo.

 _Dead_.

And if the temptation wasn't so great, he'd spend the rest of his cursed lifetime killing the Master, slowly, regeneration by regeneration, because now the stakes are higher than when it was just the universe. He _hates_ him for it. He hates himself.

The Doctor had asked him, two years ago. Jack finds he's not that man anymore. He's finished with him.

His heart rate quickens, a calculating, untamed part of his soul slithering up and unfurling around him. He feels excited, dangerous _._ It'd be obscenely easy.

And perhaps whatever comes next would be a better place without one mad god, let alone two. There'll be nobody to miss. Perhaps he owes the universe its blank slate, like it owes him this.

Wild, brown eyes are shaking him, the Doctor's sweat-matted hair plastered over his face. 'Jack! Stop it, come on!'

'Sorry, fuck-' Jack splutters, slamming that place of him shut for better or worse, 'The engine, it's...it's powered by the planets, yeah?' He shouts to make himself heard over the roaring. 'What if we take one away, destroy it, something.'

The Doctor grimaces. 'We've got nothing, no power.'

Watching them both, dissecting, as if the TARDIS isn't collapsing around them, the Master opens his mouth. Jack knows him well enough now. He's got a plan. 'We've got a vortex manipulator. Back-feed the relay loops and synchronise them to the Dalek ship.'

The Doctor's head visibly perks up. 'Internal reversal loop. Genius!' He rummages in his jacket pocket and retrieves his sonic, dialing the setting. 'Vortex manipulator, please!'

Jack offers his wrist, hardly daring to believe it, watching codes flick across the computer screen. The Doctor takes the Master's hand and presses it atop the strap, nodding at Jack.

He thumps the button.

 

 

Jack springs into action. He body-slams one Dalek, sending it careening into another which fires shots wildly as it spins, destroying two more. Fearless, Jack grabs one from behind and wrenches its gun across its servos, spraying the nearest four with gunfire.

'Doctor! Quickly!' Jack yells, hooking his legs around the Dalek's base, the heat of the gun searing his hands.

They fight over a console, the Doctor flicking through settings on his screwdriver, and then Jack's Dalek stops dead along with the twenty others in the room.

Jack jumps clear, half-expecting them to self-destruct, and covers the Time Lords while they work. They find the right interface and the Master sets codes, changes switches.

The Doctor just stands there, expression darkening.

'Done,' says the Master, looking up at him like a challenge, like an old wound.

'I can't,' says the Doctor. 'We can't.'

'Doctor. _Please_ , Doctor. Rose is out there,' Jack begs, stepping between them.

The Doctor turns to him, furious. 'Don't you dare make this about her.'

Gazing across, the Master flicks his eyes to Jack, who hopes the Master is clever enough for the both of them. One of the Master's hands rests across the controls. 'Why not, Doctor?'

'I had to choose between the Daleks and the universe once. Never again.' The Doctor grabs the Master's wrist, his grip so tight Jack can see his knuckles go white.

The Master's free hand reaches up and brushes the Doctor's temple, a gesture so gentle and intimate Jack feels wrong, startled just to witness it.

So quietly, Jack hardly hears it, the corner of his mouth twists upwards and he says, 'You never could.'

And with the Doctor's eyes wide, his face softened, the Master breaks his grip with a snarl and slams both hands onto the console, pulling identical switches.

'Freak!' he yells, 'Coordinates zero-zero-zero-null! Now!'

Jack furiously punches in the numbers on his wrist-strap, and as soon as he feels the weight of hands on his arm, he launches.

 

 

Jack gasps in breath. Oxygen. He's alive. Opening his eyes, he sees the console room, the TARDIS glowing gently like a beating heart. The Doctor and the Master lie around him, sprawled on the floor like he is.

As soon as the Doctor regains awareness, he springs to his feet, frowning at the monitor. 'It worked. The TARDIS can't find any trace of them.'

The Master, sitting splayed on the grating, raises his eyebrows and gives a self-satisfied smirk. 'Of course it did.'

'Brilliant! And Jack, couldn't have done it without you. Ha!' the Doctor beams, swinging the screen away. Jack's heart leaps at the praise, the childlike joy he just wants to see on the Doctor's face for forever.

It doesn't last long. The smile dims, the corner of his mouth twisting into something more like sadness. 'You're like me. How I was just after the War. I know why you did it, but you have to see there's another way.'

The Master's face twitches at that, a flash of anger Jack's body has learned to react to like it's an instinct. The Doctor seems utterly oblivious. 'Come on. Just this once, accept we made a good team.' Like quicksilver, his features seamlessly assume the Doctor's best cheeky grin. 'Oh, and how I beat you to saving the universe. Call and tell our good friends at UNIT that.'

Relenting, the Doctor smiles back - slowly, uncontrollably. 'Alright. And I'll be kicked out the second they hear your name, just you see.'

'Consorting with the enemy,' the Master agrees, hopping on his feet and closing the distance between them. He pins the Doctor with his body, hands finding his arms just above the elbows, and kisses him; firm, deliberate and slow. The Doctor's lips fall slack, but the Master's never part. He pulls away, the Doctor tense and slamming his jaw closed.

Jack studies the diamond-gridded iron under his fingers.

'Are you really still working for them?' the Master adds, stepping aside to let the Doctor pass.

'Sort of, not really,' the Doctor says, just a little too fast, 'Apparently I'm still on their payroll.'

'Hmm,' is all the Master replies with, and Jack watches his legs take him through the exit.

Suddenly exhausted, Jack gets to his feet, too. He craves the freedom of sleep. 'All's well that ends well?'

'I honestly can't thank you enough,' says the Doctor to him, and Jack tries not to think of whether he can still taste the Master on his lips, whether he means it or he just needs something to distract himself with.

'You don't need to thank me,' Jack sighs.

 

 

Maybe it's childish, but Jack can't stop wishing he'd taken that opportunity first, kissed the Doctor as soon as he'd spoken, while he was exhilarated enough to just let it happen and not think or hold back.

And then, he thinks, he'd be just as bad, he'd be the one the Doctor flinched from instead of the one who held his hand, who played jokes on him, who slept next to him. Bide his time, keep being a shoulder to lean on, and let the Doctor come to him instead. He's lying if he thinks it's even about reciprocation; he'll do anything to make him happy, to protect the Doctor he fell in love with. Even if that means letting the Master play them both.

That's why he came, wasn't it? Even when there was something to come back for.

He doesn't realise how deep the ache goes until Ianto's old room is gone, replaced with mud-brick walls and the crisp smell of freshwater on moss. A straw mattress lies in the centre of the room, the covers flipped up, the roof dimly lit with moonlight.

Jack shrugs off his coat and shirt and lies there, limbs spread. He inhales deeply and smells him, that funny smell to his hair that isn't shampoo or gel, or the bitter, organic scent of human scalp.

 

***

 

The Master knocks, four muted taps on the outside of his door. Jack only realises as they drift through his brain he's been awake for a while, staring at the ceiling unthinking.

Jack pulls a smile onto his face and opens the door. He used to do it on the Valiant, any kind of resistance he had available to him, but he doesn't know what he's trying to prove anymore.

'Handy, you know,' comments the Master, by way of greeting, 'Indestructible, unable to die, stupidly loyal. Worse than a dog starving over its master's grave. I'd say the Doctor's found his perfect soldier.'

Jack shrugs it off, like always, but hearing it crystallises the thought in Jack's mind, a niggling discomfort brought sharp and clear to the surface. He wants to fight him over it, over anything, but the Master's done nothing wrong and he feels like he's losing this game if he admits it. 'You could have left us there. He was right where you wanted him and you could have abandoned him. Hell, you could do it right now, you could steal the TARDIS, anything. I don't know why you didn't do it, and god, I hate that I have to say it, but I do. _Thank you_.'

Broadly satisfied, the Master gives that magnanimous grin Jack sees when he has something truly awful brewing. 'Oh, Jack. You have no _idea_ what I want.'

At that, Jack snorts. 'You know, you might be surprised to hear it, but I've met a lot of people like you. I've fallen in love with people like you. You always want the same thing. So stop wasting time and hurt me. Anything you want, fine.'

He expects to see that burst of anger, to be slapped, for the floor to fall out under his feet and end up cold and hard against his back, a never-ending nightmare he used to think could only haunt him in sleep. Instead, the Master smiles wider. Jack feels like he's missed something, the one person who didn't get the punchline.

'Well, if you're so eager, come on,' he laughs, grabbing Jack's hand and tugging him along. It's so absurdly casual, so far from a year devoid of touch save for leather and metal, from all the things the Master likes to torment with.

Not for the first time, Jack's reminded of another endless place, where the weeks lost meaning and the only thing between him and insanity was a sociopath with an insatiable appetite for sex and violence, and rarely one without the other. The memory is fond.

The Master smirks at him, gesturing to the first door they find. 'You'll like what I have planned, now the TARDIS is under my control. Go on.'

Jack grimaces and rests his hand on the door. Inhaling deeply, he pushes it open.

He sees a work room, the TARDIS's machinery laid bare behind one wall and the other covered with parts, tools, equipment. A welding torch lies where it's been thrown on the floor, the same diamond grid as the console room. The other half of the room looks like a furniture shop; wood, metal finishings in various stages of completion stacked against the walls, old chisels and crafter's tools thrown across benches carelessly. The woodwork takes Jack back to the fifties, sixties. Green, rounded handles embossed with brass manufacturer's labels catch his eye, varnished wooden hammers.

Jack looks quizzically at the Master, who ushers him inside and closes the door with a soft _click_. 'The Doctor's, of course. I thought you'd enjoy the personal touch. Now, shoes off.'

'Right,' Jack says, as if that explains any of this. Uneasy, he tugs at his shoelaces. His blood starts to rush, the insidious beat of his heart rising in his ears. He pulls one shoe free, and then the other, setting them down side by side.

The Master delicately folds his arms, fingertips tapping atop his elbow. 'Trousers. Pants too.'

Jack feels like a cadet again, fooling around in unused storerooms, ordering and being ordered for pleasure with confidence he didn't entirely have. Something thrilling, new. He's waiting for the veil to lift, to be thrown into some unbearable horror. His fingers unclasp his belt, pull open his fly. Next are his suspenders, shrugged off, and he lets his trousers fall to the floor. He steps out of the fabric and folds it approximately on top of his shoes, army style. Without any hesitation for the Master to gloat over, he slips his thumbs inside his pants and lets them fall too.

The Master doesn't move. He draws out the silence, owning it with an agonisingly slow sweep of his eyes down Jack's body. His gaze pauses over Jack's groin and stays there.

Jack tries not to be bothered, looking him straight in the eye. These are his own terms, now. There's nothing here the Master can take from him.

'I want you to touch yourself,' says the Master, eyes unmoving, 'Slow. Very, very slow. It's been a while, hasn't it?'

Mechanically, Jack obeys. He, honestly, has no idea. He doesn't remember the last time he allowed himself to feel good, or even stopped to think about it. He's too uncomfortable to become aroused, to feel his own fingers in any sense but clinically.

He looks down, at his own body, his skin as tanned and supple as the first day he died. He doesn't carry scars. His body is a lie as duplicitous as the reality he's living.

'Enough,' says the Master, and Jack lets his hand fall by his side. 'You can sit on that table, nice and still.'

Jack turns his head to where the Master indicates; an unfinished pine woodworking bench at waist height. Wordlessly, he walks to it and brushes off a coating of sawdust, hoisting himself up with his legs hanging over the edge. The Master takes a few coils of rope from a tub on the floor and the casual way he half-smiles and drops them at Jack's feet is so unnatural, he hardly knows how to react to it.

Bare, cool hands rub down Jack's shoulders, his arms, around his back. He shivers at the touch, squeezing his eyes shut and fighting the urge to flinch. The Master's fingers gather at the base of his spine, slipping over the crest of his hips, his thumbs tracing back up Jack's sides.

Jack stares determinedly, dumbly at his bare feet. The Master's lips pressing onto his take him entirely by surprise.

He tastes like the Doctor. He kisses Jack in a way he hasn't seen, not with the Doctor, not even Lucy. He's gentle, tentative even, and Jack's eyes fall shut and he gives himself permission, just for these few, precious seconds, to let it be. Fingertips dig into his muscles, firmly kneading, mapping out his bones. Jack half-moans, muffled by the press of his lips tight together, and then a tongue traces across his mouth and he jerks away.

'No,' Jack says, 'Just don't.'

'Yes,' the Master hums, the words gravel-low and just as rough, 'I think I will.'

His hand drifts to Jack's thighs and Jack tolerates it, for moments, but there's nowhere to look except into that face, the one he's seen in his nightmares for months, and he turns away. 'Please. The rope.'

For a second, the Master's splayed palm on his chest is a caress, and then he's shoved back onto the bench with force enough to knock his breath away. Just a brief glimpse, a snatch of nothing but the fear of breathing without air.

The coils of rope are soft and well-worn, and the Master wraps three, five, seven loops around his wrist, tethering it to a side-bench anchored over his head. It takes the second wrist before Jack starts to feel calm at last, still afraid, but resigned. His ankles are next, these to the table legs.

'I'd like to see you struggle,' says the Master, cinching the knots tight. Jack tries, strains, and tries again, until he has to stop to catch his breath. He feels himself fall deeper, his muscles slackening, and his reward is a little burst of numb warmth from the back of his mind. The Master's hand rests over his head.

Jack nurtures that warmth, feeding it, letting his mind open to it like a flower, and he's given pleasure and safety. The calm spreads like a glow through his limbs.

He watches the Master drizzle mineral oil into his palm and doesn't think anything of it until cool hands envelop his cock, sweet and smooth. To this, he can't help but respond, his hips rising up to meet the steady strokes. He feels dazed, everything slow, like wading through honey. If he can't escape now, he might as well accept it.

'Good boy,' the Master says, quiet and sincere. It feels sincere, in Jack's head, where he can feel the praise like an embrace, bubbling up in his heart. Jack lets his gratitude be felt, and his reward is soft, slick flesh, silken and tight, slipping over the head of his cock and sucking.

He starts at the sensation, the shock almost bringing him back. But Jack doesn't want to come back, he wants to stay here, here, where he can't move or speak and has no choice but to be pleasured. Here, he's nobody. Just pleasure. In the haze of arousal, even the ropes feel delicious against his bare skin.

The Master pulls off, and Jack groans deep in his chest, like he's being stirred from sleep. Eyes blown, he throws his head back and lifts his hips, offering them.

'Go on,' says the Master, eyes dancing above him, 'I want you to come.'

'Can't,' slurs Jack, some of the glow fading away.

The Master's spare hand rests over his eyes, again. 'You're mine, Jack. Yes you can.'

And from the base of his neck, the warmth spreads and sparks down his nerves, until his entire body rises to the brink of orgasm like a match dropped in fuel, and Jack couldn't think of stopping it if he tried. He convulses, crying out once, and then it's done.

He feels alone, in both his mind and body, empty. The Master's fingers stroke his cheek, his jaw, and it isn't enough. 'Please,' he says.

'Patience,' is all the Master murmurs, unbuttoning his shirt. His palms drag flat down his chest, over his nipples, to the muscles straining through the skin of his stomach. He delivers a sharp smack, over Jack's ribs, and the impact is so loud and quick Jack flinches before he even feels it. The pain is so mild, a muted warmth when it arrives, and after it passes just as quickly he releases his breath and laughs.

There are more slaps, against the same stretch of skin, with mechanical precision. Jack watches his flesh turn red, puffy and hypersensitive, and the pain morphs into something raw and burning. Wincing, he twists his body away from the blows, even while the emptiness is driven out of him by the need to make it stop, escape.

It does stop, replaced by four fingernails pressed deep into the muscle just below his nipple. Jack sucks in breath, squeezing his eyes shut, and only then do the nails drag over that same place like knives. Mottled lines of red spring up in their wake, capillaries emptying beneath his skin. The sharpness of it fades to a warm ache, and Jack shifts and moans, accommodating it.

He feels the Master's approval return inside his head, and by now the intrusion feels so natural he sighs and relaxes both body and mind to let it bloom.

The Master takes handfuls of his skin on the opposite side, pulling and digging his nails in like tenderising meat. Jack's breaths ebb and flow in time with the little sparks of pain, indistinguishable from touch. When he winds another loop of rope over Jack's chest, under his arms, he can feel every fibre, every twist in the rope, like sandpaper against his skin.

Jack lets the sensations wash over him, doesn't fight them. He feels like he could fall asleep and stay there for days.

Then the Master pulls an old electric drill from the piles of junk. Jack gasps and panics, until the adrenaline brings him into hyper-awareness and he bites his lip to keep from crying out. Nostrils flaring, his eyes lock onto flaking blue-painted steel and he tugs against the ropes he'd _asked for_ until he doesn't want to look anymore and flings his head back against the wood.

The ceiling is bright, fluorescent light streaming down in a flicker too fast to catch. He can just make out the details of the roof behind that, the same ribbed design of the console room. He clings to that image.

A _thump_ to his left makes him jerk and twist away, as far as the ropes will allow. He closes his eyes but he can smell the old metal, the tang of rust and years of time. He feels the cold radiating near his face.

He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter when another object is set beside him, rattling as if full of screws. The Master's fingers grasp his face and force him to look, Jack opening his eyes obligingly in case it earns him mercy.

'Please, please no,' Jack whispers, memories returning from the Valiant, from even before, of exactly how long this could take for him to die, of the sensation of grinding bone vibrating through his skull.

He's given no comfort, not a single word, as the Master clicks a drill bit into place and flicks the machine on.

Jack's hands squeeze into tight fists, trying to curl his body in on itself, his belly feeling unbearably exposed. One hand stills his left wrist, the bit hovering over his knuckles. 'Fingers flat.'

Jack thinks of the bones of the hand and spreads his palm, shaking, his breaths coming so fast his chest quivers with them. He hopes his heart stops.

The whirr of the drill is so unreal Jack can't take his eyes off it, forgetting to breathe entirely. He watches as if his mind has entirely separated from his body, like in a dream, at once living what happens to him but no longer participating, only a spectator. When the spinning bit touches his palm, the world seems to stop. It falls away to that one image, like a singularity that is everything he is, compressed into just this moment.

For a second, he smells burning flesh. And then the pain, for the brief shocking flash it can be called pain. The rest is piercing agony.

He screams like something no longer human, the sound so far away he's hardly aware of making it, and it goes on and on and until the noise changes, and the drill saws through the wood underneath. Then it stops.

His throat suddenly thick with tears, Jack gasps, hardly able to breathe through wave after wave of pain. There's a final, splitting _tug_ from inside his flesh, and the bit is ejected, pinning his hand to the table.

Jack stares, and stares at the metal extruding from his flesh, and sucks in air. There's hardly any blood, a fine mist over his fingers, a slow seep of red pooling in his palm. He looks up at the Master, whether in disbelief or anger or pleading he doesn't know, and those cool fingertips trace their way around the blood welling up in his hand.

He can't feel it anymore. His stomach feels twisted, his heart receding to a slow, dreamlike thump deep in his belly. He knows he doesn't feel right, but all sensation is too sluggish to make out.

'See, that wasn't so bad, was it?' the Master's voice floats, drawing smooth lines of blood up his forearm. It dries and cools there, and Jack realises he's freezing cold, sweat popping out from every pore of his body. The halves of his shirt do little to help. 'One down, three to go.'

Jack's heart sinks. His eyebrows draw together, shaking his head mutely and searching the Master's face for a joke, sarcasm, but there's nothing except cold focus. And then the tears come, pooling in the corners of his eyes, and once they start he can't stop them. He curls his good hand tight, turning away from the Master and letting his tears seep across his face and onto the wood. He catches a sob and bites down hard on his lip, drawing in haggard, wet breaths through his nose. 'I can't, I can't do it, please,' he whimpers.

'Jack,' urges the Master, carding fingers through his sweat-matted hair, and Jack shamelessly moans and wants it never to end, 'I know you can. Relax.'

He does, slowing his breathing, clinging to the one person that can make it better and unsure why when the same person is going to kill him, torture him until he dies and even then, it won't stop. He tries to think of nothing but the Master's fingers, slow, kindling the numb warmth still trapped around the edges of his mind. He can tap into that place, let himself drift there, where a tough little burst of pride sits that Jack realises is for him.

The drill rests against his palm, cold and sharp. Jack takes a shaky breath, grits his teeth together so hard it hurts, and nods.

It hurts, it hurts a _lot_ , but Jack stays on top of the white-hot pain, digging his heels into that place and clinging and letting his body succumb while his mind floats above. Halfway through his breath catches and he wails, screams, overwhelmed until he finds his footing again and pinches his eyes closed against the rest of it. The Master lets him rest there, hand still working through his hair, until he can breathe again, and then he detaches the drill.

Now, the dull ache mixes with the honey-gold clouding his senses, and it feels glorious. Jack laughs, his face wet from tears, his hands impaled through and he rides it like a ship in a storm.

'Good, you're so good,' the Master murmurs, playing behind his ear and down the sensitive skin of his neck. His teeth sink into Jack's collarbone, and it hurts so much but so little to him that he giggles, squirming. He grins unabashed, feeling a strange affection brew on his insides, where the Master's pride fills him. He'll regret it tomorrow, probably, he'll regret everything, but for now it feels _right_.

His tongue fat and heavy in his mouth, Jack mumbles, 'More.'

This time, the drill is positioned at the side of his ankle, his leg twisted flat against the table. Jack looks down and grins wildly, meeting the Master's eyes and laughing. 'Fuck, fuck, this is gonna hurt,' Jack slurs, wiggling his toes.

'I think it could,' says the Master, sharing in his smile, 'I think it could hurt a _lot_.'

Jack hears the whirr of the drill and throws his head back. He pants and shrieks his way through the pain, but then he hears a sudden _crack_ and the agony flares so brightly his vision sears with it, his ears deafened with his own screams. The grinding shudders up his whole leg, into his hips, and Jack clings and pulls for the Master's protection in his head, but he can't focus, the little wisps aren't _enough_. Howling, Jack twists away with unbidden strength, but he's wrenched back into position and the drill punched through into the table.

Jack's cries keep coming even after the noise stops, whimpered through his breath, the agony in his hands returning ten-fold, in harmony with his ankle and hovering outside his endurance. He cries, again, his body shaking, begging _please_ over and over. His vision swims, going dark then over-exposed in little winding sparks of light.

The cold metal of the drill digs into his other leg. Jack's whole body trembles, his muscles shivering. His voice is too thick for coherent speech, but he shakes his head back and forth, pleading with his eyes. 'Don't, don't, please don't--'

A slap lands over his thigh, dangerously close to his balls. 'Do _not_ test me,' the Master snarls, taking hold of the ropes around Jack's chest and pulling him down, straining on the rods through his hands. Without any breath to even scream, Jack's eyes fall back into his head, shaking.

He's released, and the drill re-positioned at his heel. Shivering, sweat running in rivulets down his chest, Jack tosses his head to the side, teeth clenched.

'Just one more,' comes the Master's whisper, a current of air over clammy skin, 'Come on. Breathe.'

Jack stares blankly at the wall, wetly sucking in air through his nose. He waits for it to be over.

He feels every millimetre, groaning, his cries growing louder in volume and pitch. By the skin of his teeth he manages to keep control of his body, his mind, clawing at the anchor there. The pain courses around him, through him, like a drowning man clinging to a rock in the river. This time, the Master avoids the bone. He hears the _punch_ of the drill striking wood, and releases his breath.

He can hardly see. His stomach lurches, bile rising in the back of his throat he quickly swallows down, feeling grey and faint.

The Master kisses his thigh, dropping the drill to the floor. 'Very good, you're so good for me, aren't you.'

Jack nods and hopes if he plays along, he'll be rewarded with mercy.

The echoing, bone-dull aches of his four limbs spark up towards his torso with each minute movement, and when he lays perfectly still, they send him deep under. Blinking slowly, he watches the Master take a craft knife and cut long, shallow lines of red down the length of his side. Blood beads like deep red pearls, coalescing, slowly converging into paths that wind their way across his ribs. Fascinated, Jack watches it drip. He hums pleasantly when the Master's warm tongue finds the droplets and kisses them away.

He's cold. He's freezing cold, radiating ice and sweat, and even the Master's skin feels warm to him. Moaning, he wants nothing more than to be embraced, to sleep.

Tugging the metal out of his hands is slow and difficult. The Master takes a pair of pliers and grips the shank firmly, wiggling the rod out like extracting teeth. Exhausted, Jack feels the tugs against his flesh, just a blip of discomfort on top of sensation already too far out of range to measure. In too much shock to feel, he's left with just the image of the bit, stretching his skin as it pulls out, and he feels ill to watch, even to think of it. The wounds are neat. Where his flesh parts on the surface, the edges are cauterised, but within blood wells and seeps.

The ropes are next. Jack feels naked without them, his limbs feel boneless and numb. He hadn't realised how hard he'd been straining against his bonds until, now free to move, he realises his ligaments, his joints feel torn. His whole body is weak, like jelly.

The Master hauls him upright, helping him to sit, and Jack immediately attempts to get his feet and collapses, opening his mouth for pain that doesn't entirely come, like a fuzzy telephone connection. The Master crouches down and wraps an arm around him, and Jack gratefully collapses into his suit jacket, cradling his ruined hands by his waist. He doesn't seem to mind.

'I'm proud of you, Jack,' the Master murmurs. 'You did so well.'

Jack accepts the praise quietly, and rests. He huddles there, until warmth starts to return to his core, until he starts to feel pride, too, pride that he made it, that the journey was one he took with the Master, rather than one purely done to him.

He feels so alone, so lost when the Master gently levers him away, kneeling up and fervently wanting to stay in this place between life and death, above and under consciousness. He nuzzles the fork of his trousers, inhaling but still too fuzzy to sense, to smell, rubbing his face against the Master's crotch and hoping his eyes say what his mouth is too tired to, what his heart is too afraid to admit.

The Master offers just a few of his fingers instead, letting Jack kiss and suck and lave them. He can't taste, but his tongue feels the bite of salt, of copper. He devours that skin anyway, softer but tougher than his own, like he's starving. He pours himself into the favour.

Too soon, the Master pulls away, offering Jack a smile that is far too close to sympathetic, to kind, for him to bear. He wipes Jack's spit across his face. 'I have something for you, because you've been so good.'

Jack nods and waits, hovering on his knees. The Master pulls something sleek and shiny from behind his back and places it in Jack's lap, a heavy, dense weight.

It's his pistol.

Jack looks up, in both surprise and confusion, but the Master has already gone.

He gingerly turns the gun over in his fingers, dulling its surface with sticky prints of blood. All the chambers are empty, except one. He's never done it, though. Curse or no curse, the idea always seemed so hopeless.

He feels like once he admits that final defeat, there's no going back. There's nowhere left to turn. He'd go mad.

Jack fumbles with the chamber, the hammer. He turns the gun over and over in his hands, looking deep down its barrel like a well, a crystal ball, as if an answer is hidden deep within. He pulls the trigger and hears the faintest, softest click.

 


	12. III: Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. Sure, it's been five months, but I have 15K to make up for it! Here be smut, tears, smut, smut, tears. I feel like I should be frankly ashamed of myself for churning out so much filth. I've also edited the chapter titles to give a better sense of the "arcs" this fic falls into as things...progress. I will say no more.

The Master trails his fingertip down a page of thick, fine print, words too archaic and obtuse for Jack to make sense of before the pages are hurriedly flicked. 'So, keeping in mind that the official records at this period state that the distortions were widespread, our friend, Tnngt, says she saw the Black Comet. Which would of course place them,' the Master continues, dropping another open book across the first, 'somewhere in Kasterborous.'

'I don't even remember when I found these,' the Doctor sighs, crossing his arms. 'Forget their little celestial alignment, the entire planet might have been wiped from time in the War.'

Jack flicks through some peculiar alien war diary absently, having long given up on following their conversation.

'But,' the Master suggests, that Doctor-like glint in his eyes, 'You don't know that, do you? Have you checked?'

'Of course I haven't,' the Doctor says, closing the books, 'And I'm quite happy not knowing.'

The Master takes hold of his shoulder, bringing their faces close enough to touch. The Doctor's eyes blow wide in a way that Jack thinks can't entirely be from proximity. The Master says, 'But what if there's a chance?' and then the two are silent.

Jack hates it when they talk in their heads.

'It sounds nice,' Jack says, hesitantly, 'The alignment thing. Like an eclipse, but better?'

The Doctor jerks away from the Master's hold. 'Oh, much better, I think--he, I mean, he thinks the auroras will be bright enough to cast their whole capital into daylight.'

'A short trip might be nice,' Jack suggests. 'Take some photos, celebrate.'

'I'm _bored_ , Doctor,' the Master says, 'I've been on my best behaviour.'

The Doctor smiles a little, an uncomfortable smile that reminds Jack of a schoolteacher holding kids back after the bell. 'I can't say you haven't. But the answer's no - we'll find somewhere else. No Kasterborous.'

Glancing at the Master, Jack says, 'Since when were you ever afraid of a little danger?'

'It's not the danger I'm worried about,' the Doctor says, collecting the books and turning away.

The Master shrugs. 'Coward. Fine. Spend the rest of your life like this, but by all means, keep lording it over me how _good_ it makes you when you whine over your body count.'

Turning around, Jack hisses, 'At least he didn't run away.'

The Master fixes him with a curious, enquiring look, hidden under the sharp downturn of his eyebrows. Quietly, he buttons his jacket. Jack loses eye contact, watching his fingers twist the buttons into place, and the dissonance of watching him perform something so domestic  seems to paralyse him. The Doctor hums to break the silence, browsing the shelves as much as tidying them.

Then the Master walks out, and Jack realises for the first time since _before_ , he has the Doctor to himself.

'So. All these books yours?' Jack says, running his fingers over the worn upholstery of the armchair, glancing up at him.

'They are now,' the Doctor replies. 'Some of them I collect. All the Earth ones, at least.'

'The library is one of my favourite rooms here,' Jack says. 'It's not even the books. It's just so…'

The Doctor leaves the books lying flat on the shelf. 'It's one of the standard installations. Very traditional architecture.'

'Do you miss home?' Jack asks. He watches the Doctor - through false lightness, the flash of anger, the sagging of the lines of his face. There's more of them.

'Yes,' the Doctor says. 'I miss it a lot. I miss my family. I left them, you know, at the start. Just took off without saying goodbye.'

Jack shuffles over and pats the little bit of seat, hoping the roomy armchair has just enough space to fit the Doctor's thin frame. 'Me, too. Tell me a bit about them? I guess I knew you must have family, but I just, I thought…'

'Everyone does,' the Doctor smiles, 'Almost everyone. It's okay, there's nothing to tell.' He takes the seat, their hips wedged together.

Jack feels a small thrill of pride that it's him, here, with the Doctor. In the end, it's him. 'Funny thing is, there's not much to tell with me either. Nothing I want to tell.'

'Funny thing indeed,' sighs the Doctor. 'They're gone, now. Probably yours too. Or, I don't know, they haven't been born yet - technically, right _here_ they've been dead a million years, but for you they haven't been born, and if I could take you to see them, I would, but--'

'They're not who I'd want to see,' Jack says quietly.

There's a lull in the conversation. Their bodies are touching, the Doctor's cool cloth against Jack's shirt and belt and trousers and pants underneath, but Jack's created this brick wall, and he feels as apart as usual.

He kisses the Doctor. Lips slightly parted, he takes the side of the Doctor's head with one hand and brings their mouths together. The Doctor stays pliant, accepting, Jack closing his lips around the Doctor's lower one and gently pressing.

The Doctor takes Jack's hand, closing it between his own two. He pulls away. 'There's something I've been wanting to ask you.'

Barely daring to close his mouth, to wipe the taste of the Doctor's smooth, alien skin from his lips, Jack just shakes his head. 'Anything. You can ask anything.'

The Doctor's nails dig into the back of his hand, grasping tighter. 'When do you want me to - you know, to take you home, of course not when you want me to do it, just when you want to go home. When did you want to go home?'

'Doctor,' Jack splutters, his mind racing, 'I haven't, I…'

The Doctor lets go of his hand, covering his face with both palms. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said, it isn't fair. I take it back, I really do.'

'I'm not going home,' Jack says. 'I mean it.'

The Doctor freezes, staring at him. 'I didn't realise you wanted to stay.'

'I mean, if it's okay,' Jack hedges, suddenly worrying he's made a huge mistake - and the Doctor interrupts him, stammering, 'Of course, of course it is, you're welcome to stay.'

Taking a breath, Jack tries again. His heart is racing - excitement, the fear he's about to do something really stupid, love, he doesn't know. 'I didn't think I would, to start with. But things have...changed. I want to stay. I want to stay forever.'

'You can't promise that,' the Doctor says, weakly. 'Please, don't promise that.'

'I promise,' says Jack, 'I can promise it, and I do. Trust me. When have I ever left you?'

The Doctor looks out the door. 'I can't promise the same thing.'

'I don't need you to,' Jack pleads. 'I just want you to trust me that I'll stay.'

The Doctor chews the inside of his cheek, looking down.

Jack pulls the Doctor's head onto his shoulder, putting an arm around him. He seems godlike, to Jack, some otherworldly being, and yet as fragile as glass - a sand sculpture, forged from fire into something pure and permanent and ready to shatter with a single blow. 'You can think about it. Take your time.'

'I think I do,' the Doctor says. 'Trust you.'

Jack aches to kiss, to reach his hands under the Doctor's clothes, to touch and please. He yearns to join their bodies and give the Doctor in pleasure what he wishes he could show him with words, with sacrifices. He wants the Doctor to give up his shield and let Jack carry him, just for a few moments. But the Doctor is stiff against him, and his mind seems to shut down the second Jack's body makes contact with his, and Jack doesn't dare destroy this moment.

Instead, he stays and holds him, and the Doctor rests his hand so the side of it touches Jack's smallest finger. He makes conversation, and he keeps going until the Doctor laughs.

And then, after he's said goodbye, and left to follow the TARDIS's slim corridors, he opens the door to the Master's room.

***

Jack sits on the bed, his coat removed, his suspenders shrugged off over both shoulders. The mattress is firm, crisp, like it's never been used. The whole place smells like leather and metrosexual twenty-first century designer _eau de toilette_.

He's raided the bedside drawers - a paperback classic, a nail file and clippers, a mirror. A newspaper in the other - a late seventies edition, white and clean. The bathroom is like luxury incarceration; all plain, shiny chrome, utilitarian, but rich with silver trim and crystal light fittings.

The door opens and the Master doesn't even blink to see him, thumbing through the newspaper, legs swung over the end of his bed. 'So soon? Goodness, I hope the Doctor hasn't gone and done something immensely stupid, and this is your way of warning me.'

Jack shakes his head, and looks somewhere through the Master, avoiding his face.

'No?' Loosening the knot of his tie, but not taking it out, the Master rests his hands on his hips. 'Well. What do you want?'

'I'm staying,' Jack says. 'Long term. I want it to stay that way, so. I want this arrangement to go on as long as it needs to.'

The Master stares him down. Stuck, on the other side of the standoff, Jack holds his ground. He gives nothing away, but the Master's eyes look straight through him as if he lives on some other plane, where Jack's self is bare, stripped from his body and mind. His eyes narrow. 'You want me to hurt you, don't you?'

'What?' Jack says, dropping the newspaper, 'No, God, of course not, I…' Tears well in his eyes and Jack drops his head, covering his face with both hands. ' _I don't know_ , I don't...I don't know.'  After everything the Master has taken from him; his dignity, his happiness, his lover, Jack finds he admits it shamelessly. He doesn't care.

As long as the Doctor never, ever hears it, he doesn't care at all.

'No. No, I don't think I will hurt you,' the Master says. 'There are other ways you can thank me for keeping your little status quo.'

Jack doesn't move his hands from his face. Breathing shakily, he forces the storm back from his eyes, the lump in his throat, back into the place where Ianto and Gwen and _his Doctor_ and Estelle and so many of them  he wants to forget but he _can't_ have to be kept.

'Take off your shoes, put my paper back in the drawer. The rest can stay,' the Master says, no particular intonation in his voice; not the cruelty, not the command, not the venom.

Vision still blurred, Jack works his fingers over the knotted laces of his boots. He flicks his nail into the double bow, loosening the tie, and pulls on the free end to dismantle the knot. Pulling the cord through the eyelets, picking up slack, he works his foot out of the shoe.

He sees the Master's shoes click around to the left side of the bed, and starts on the next. The knot is tight, his fingernails unable to get quite enough grip on the lace. He pinches the cord, wiggling it with just the tips of his nails, until there's more to grip on. From there it's easy. He pushes the shoe off with his other foot.

Not looking up, Jack folds the newspaper and shifts around, placing it back in the right-hand drawer. The Master is behind him.

Jack stays very still and quiet as he feels the bed shift, the Master shuffle in and perch at his back. Fingers place themselves on his upper arms, gentle, and start to knead.

The fingers are gentle. They rub with enough pressure to knead Jack's sore muscles, wound up and tight, but are light enough to caress. He feels the cold of the Master's skin, that slimy, corpse-like touch that never came without pain, suffering, death. Now, it trails down the outside of Jack's arms, sending electricity shooting through to his palms, down his spine, and then the Master's fingertips dig in at his shoulder and bicep and tug and knead. Jack moans, and leans back into it, and doesn't dare close his eyes for fear of losing this moment to those memories, the ones he can't begin to push away.

The hands come closer to his neck. Thumbs press into his nape, the soft, short hair, rubbing firm circles along the cords of his muscles. They snake over his collarbones, slipping the suspenders down over his shoulders, following the elastic with firm, soothing touch. He undoes the top few buttons of Jack's shirt, smoothing his cold palms over the skin beneath. Then the Master rucks up his shirt and slides his hands underneath, around Jack's hips, massaging over his lower back and up his spine. Limp, Jack lets it happen. The Master leans closer, pressing his fingers over Jack's stomach, slipping up under his shirt and over his nipples, teasing.

'Up on the bed,' the Master says, warmly, and pulls the rest of the buttons free, helping Jack out of his shirt.

Pulling Jack into his lap, the Master rests his lips against Jack's right ear, hands moving to undo his fly. He breathes gently over his neck, his jaw, helping Jack off the bed with his spare hand to slide his trousers off. He kisses his way over Jack's neck.

'Please, please don't,' Jack murmurs, lying in the Master's hold, the hands moving to tease him out of his pants. 'Just fuck me.'

The Master hums in his ear. 'Pants and socks off, on your knees, if you will.'

Chilly, Jack toes off his socks, letting his pants join his trousers on the floor. He shifts up on the bed, on hands and knees, arching his back as if he enjoys it. Perhaps if he pretends well enough, he might just begin to.

Curling over his back, predatory, the Master sinks teeth into the back of Jack's neck, where the skin is warm and flushed from his attention. Jack arches away and into it, letting out a harsh gasp of pain, bucking against the Master's hold like a trapped animal. The Master immediately releases the flesh between his teeth, kissing, sucking, smoothing his hands down Jack's bare shoulders and taking his wrists. He stretches them above Jack's head, pressing his body down.

'Alright,' the Master says. 'Just like that, nice and still. You're being very good for me.'

Jack expects the shared spark of pride, the way it numbs and warms him. He feels humiliated, he feels more trapped than if he'd been restrained, if he'd been able to blame it all on cuffs and rope instead of his own impotence.

The black, sturdy woven silk of the Master's tie is wound around his wrists in a figure eight, the free ends brought between his hands and cinched around the bonds, cuffing his wrists together. There's just enough material left to slip it through the bars of the Master's bedframe, and Jack isn't sure if they were there before. Neither is he sure about the long, wooden rod the Master pulls from under the bed; the loops of metal on each side that click into place around his ankles and tighten automatically, pinning them at the ends of the bar.

Climbing back behind him, the Master plants his knee behind the spreader bar, forcing Jack to keep his knees bent and his ass in the air. Jack rests his cheek against the pillows, nestled between his arms, and relaxes his muscles for what will probably be a punishingly rough fuck, if the restraints are anything to go by.

Instead, the Master reaches beneath him and pulls at his soft cock. He tugs gently, his grip loose, closed beneath the head and pulling Jack's shaft down, back between his legs. His hand moves lower, to Jack's balls, his touch gentle as he stretches them away from his body. Jack bucks against the Master's chest, curled over his back, when something cold and metal goes around the top of his balls and clips into place all the way around, over the base of his cock. Jerking his head down, Jack catches sight of a little screw; the Master twists it a few turns, a few more, and Jack feels the metal ring tighten in response. Enough he can't get it off, not enough to be uncomfortable.

He's left, his muscles straining to keep his head and neck up with nothing to brace against. He settles for wedging the top of his head against the pillow, trying to see what the Master's doing. He wants to feel lost, gone, nothing. He feels like a circus act. He feels like there must be some hidden camera beaming this down to the likes of Yvonne Hartman.

The Master's hands come back into view, wet and shining, and they smooth something light and oily over his cock. This touch is clearly meant to arouse. The fingers are firm, rhythmic, they slide his foreskin back and forth over the head of his cock, and when Jack moans and shudders into them the Master stops, squeezes, lets him pant, and starts again. His other hand trails over Jack's exposed flank, his hip, digging his nails in with just the perfect amount of pain that Jack hisses and groans and shoves his hips into the Master's waiting, tight fist.

The Master leaves his hand like that, circled tight around Jack's cock, and eager to lose himself in sensation and submission, Jack rocks himself against it. The oil smells faintly of lavender, of rose, and it's soft and slides delicious and thin. As soon as Jack is fully hard, the Master loosens his grip, and lets him work for the friction for just a moment. Then oil is smoothed over his balls, the Master's fingers warmer, now, with exertion, the touch sensitive and unbearably teasing.

That last sensation is taken away, too. Jack finds himself hard, his breaths coming heavy, his face pressed into the pillows. The Master leans back, until he isn't touching him at all, and shifts away to the end of the bed. His ass in the air, Jack instinctively goes to close his legs, thwarted by the bar which only allows him a few inches of movement, at best. His knees bent under his hips, he can hardly pull them together. He feels air ghost over his hole and he desperately wants to clench his legs, not to hide his nakedness, but the way he's propped up and exposed and placed for use, and only use.

The lube the Master pours between his buttocks is different. It's thick, and gelatinous, and as the Master smears it over him it stretches in thick strings. Two fingers are pressed to his entrance and then pushed inside, gently, and Jack stiffens and relaxes to allow them deeper. It feels good to be filled again. He takes a breath, and thrusts himself back, taking the fingers to the knuckles.

'Mm, good,' the Master acknowledges, but his voice is distracted, busy with a plastic bottle and squeezing more lube on his fingers. He pulls out long enough to gather it, and push it inside Jack, who relishes the easy slide.

Jack expects a deep, hard thrust, the Master shoving himself in. Instead he gets the tips of his fingers, pressing somewhere _inside_ him, deep in the core of his groin, finding the dull, spreading pleasure of his prostate and rubbing. It isn't hard. It's just enough Jack shivers, his thighs trembling, adjusting himself around the skin and bone inside him and feeling his stomach turn to jelly.

He gives sex so freely and openly that he can accept this, too. Let it happen - he isn't ashamed, and it can't break him and it hasn't yet. But as the Master works his fingers over Jack's prostate, drawing deep, long bursts of pleasure from him,  Jack suspects he knows it, too. He knows that just breaching, taking Jack's body isn't enough. Constant, the Master massages him from the inside, and as the dull pleasure turns to intense, rhythmic waves, Jack knows, too, that pleasure is just a tool, like pain, like fear, that he can use to turn body and mind against each other.

His erection aches, now, for touch. And the metal ring trapping it against his balls has taken him past uncomfortable, into almost painful. As if reading his mind, the Master tightens it one more turn with his spare hand, and the first little shivers of terror break through the pleasure-drugged haze of the fingers still working inside him.

Jack shifts, moans, something that's almost a whimper. The Master's fingers rub harder, vicious stabs that make his every breath edge on a hiss or a shriek, that make the tight ring around him painful as he thrusts against empty air. 'Please, p-please,' Jack whispers, his voice breathless, 'Touch me, I,' he pants, tugging against the silk of the Master's tie, keeping his wrists firmly fastened together.

The Master does, gently squeezing his balls, pinching between them, pressing a finger deep into the stretched skin of his perineum, anywhere but where he needs it most. Jack groans, gasping with a violent, 'Ah!' as his cock twitches under the next thrust inside him, fluid beading and sliding down the head. He can feel it, that tiny, wet stripe, he can feel every molecule of it and he moans and tries to rut into the bed. The restraints are too tight, his back arched too tightly to get his hips near the mattress, his knees forced up by the Master's leg, still stoppered against the bar between them. Jack spreads his legs wider, as far as he can, and thrusts back onto the Master instead.

The pleasure is merciless, the sensations so overwrought and sharp he feels like he's being torn apart with each dig of the Master's fingers inside him. He can feel precome dripping freely, connecting his cock to the bed in one thick string. He feels like he'll explode from the ache of it alone.

The massage pauses. The cessation of it is even worse, the ache of unreleased arousal magnifying tenfold. Jack groans with frustration, his legs suddenly shaking, exhausted from holding himself up. His neck aches where the Master bit at the muscles. He hears the squeeze of a bottle, and as he shifts, he catches sight of his own cock - swollen, ruddy purple, shining with his own arousal.

The fingers pull out, just enough that he feels another slipped in beside them, and all three are slowly, surely pressed back in. Jack slams himself on them, desperately trying to get the Master to touch him again, _there_ , where he can't reach, but the Master's fingers are reaching deep inside him, ignoring where he wants them. Moaning, Jack rocks himself back and forth, trying to catch them against his prostate on each thrust.

The fingers, sunk deep inside him, the Master pauses to pull at his cock and Jack sobs, yelping, 'I'm going to--'

'No,' the Master says, 'No, you won't,' and removes his hand, and before Jack can even wail from the frustration of it, he's stopped by another finger, wedging itself in beside the others and heightening the stretch.

Panting, Jack pauses, the width just enough he needs to adjust to it. He can't remember how long its been since he's last done this, and it's always worst just after he's died, when he hadn't gotten any for _months_ before that day, and then the Master pulls away just long enough to press in deeper, and Jack _shrieks_ when the Master's knuckles slip just inside him.

It hurts. The bones of his hand are hard, and unforgiving and Jack can tell they're bruising him, and he needs to come too badly to care. They stop, there, and Jack hears more lube being squeezed from a bottle and poured over where the Master's hand disappears inside him. It drips over his hand, wet globs falling down the back of Jack's thighs.

The Master cups Jack's balls, squeezing again, Jack barely able to breathe from need. He gently withdraws, Jack hissing as his muscles are allowed to contract, and then the tip of the Master's thumb is tightly squashed inside and his whole hand starts to drive itself, ruthlessly, inwards.

Jack jerks his whole body forwards, panting, barely able to contain a cry. 'No, please, I'm not, I can't yet.'

'Oh, Freak,' the Master murmurs, pausing just long enough to shuffle further upwards, and then forcing his fist deeper, 'Remember when I killed you like this?'

Ice shoots down the channel of Jack's spine. Erection forgotten, Jack goes very, very still. Already buried in the pillows, he sinks further down, the images as vivid as ever. 'Yes,' he says, so quiet it barely escapes the bed.

He does. He remembers pain, and blood, the trickles of it down his legs where it washed away grime and mingled with the rest of the filth on the floor, and the intense, unfathomable agony of his intestines being stretched until they tore, and the way he spent days, moaning and crying, wordlessly, as the pain turned to raging fever and he vomited up his own shit and right before he died, Ianto told him that Weevils were bad at math, and suddenly all he wanted was to stay alive just a few, precious moments more.

'No, no,' Jack whimpers, 'no, no, no, don't, no--'

Relentless, the Master puts more force into his arm than Jack's tight, freshly-renewed body can resist, and Jack yells, whining in his throat, 'Stop, please!'

'Sssh,' the Master says, pausing to stroke the small of his back, 'This is the hardest part. You can take it.'

'I can't, I can't,' Jack cries, and even as he tries to bear down and relax, he feels a sharp, stinging _tear_ , and he can't breathe for how massive the Master's whole hand feels inside him, for how much it _hurts_ , his stomach lurching, and then he splutters, 'I'm going to be sick, please!'

'I won't stop,' the Master says, even as he pulls back just enough that Jack isn't afraid he'll black out, 'You can drown in your own vomit and wake up in it - you'll do as I say.'

Survival. It's such a terrible irony, but Jack falls into that mindset so easily, to just _endure_. He breathes, letting his muscles go slack, just the ligaments of his neck and back holding him.

He's hardly there at all when the Master forces the last, widest part of his thumb and palm through, and the splitting pain crescendos all at once before Jack's own body draws him down around the Master's wrist. Then the full width of the Master's curled hand is wedged, forced against his prostate, and Jack forgets how to detach his mind from his body, and _wails_.

He ought to have lost his erection, his stomach a thick, vibrating nauseous blanket in his stomach, the pain just barely receding out of dangerous levels, but the metal ring has all the blood trapped in his cock and it's so sensitive he could cry, the Master's knuckles against his insides are so incomprehensibly _massive_ inside him, he shakes and barely knows how to process so much sensation, let alone deal with it. Tears start to build in his eyes, his body overwhelmed.

And that's when the Master touches a hand to his temple, and Jack's world filters away into pure, warm pleasure, into acceptance and praise, into the Master's pride and his rich, gentle presence. It's so easy, this time. It's so easy and so good.

'Master,' Jack moans, and experimentally rocks his hips, 'God, god, I'm going...I don't know, fuck.'

 _Let's just stay_ , the Master rumbles, from within his mind, and Jack can hardly believe it. Jack slumps, letting the Master support his weight on the fist inside him, and lets his body collapse.

Gently, the Master rocks his hand against the inside of Jack's abdomen, and Jack groans again as the pressure works more precome out of him. Curling his knees tighter up, letting his weight sag on the Master's wrist, Jack huddles around himself and clings on to the Master in his mind for dear life.

Here, everything is right. It isn't love - it's warm, it's fulfilling, but it's too empty for love. Jack will take whatever he can get. Minutes pass in exquisite, agonising arousal, in being filled completely, physically and within his soul where he's good, he's so good and he's so proud, and Jack knows his pain is _valued_ and _meaningful_ and nothing like suffering, or anguish or loneliness.

The Master lets go of his hip long enough to free his own cock, and rubs it against Jack's thigh, up under his perineum, where his balls lie swollen and sensitive.  Once, months or more ago, Jack would have silently thanked whatever god he couldn't believe in for the reprieve, and spent it gathering himself, steeling himself for the torture he knew was coming next, wishing the respite would never end. Now he pushes his hips back, rubbing himself against his Master, making it _good_ for him and he can see that warm smile he used to think only the Doctor could give, and now he knows that pride is here, too.

The Master pulls him back up onto his knees, and Jack shakingly supports his own weight. He can hardly feel his muscles, the deep purple _need_ in his groin, the stretched, stinging ache where the Master has him speared around his wrist. Oh, he knows they're there, but he's safe as long as he does what he's told.

More lube. Jack steels himself, mentally clutching onto the Master's presence, and feels the solid hand inside him slide deeper. He sobs, loud and sharp like a yell he doesn't have enough breath for, and sweat drips down him as the Master pushes forwards. The stretch starts to hurt again, the pressure inside him meeting sharp resistance, and as he feels the mass grow smaller, longer, and the Master starts to curve his wrist and thrust his forearm in and out Jack thinks he's going to kill him, again.

 _Should I,_ the Master asks, sending the question over sensation and breathing and anything Jack feels that ought to drown it out.

'Yes,' Jack moans, 'yes, please, anything, don't _stop_.'

The voice goes silent in his mind, and the Master does precisely that. Gently, carefully, he starts to ease his hand backwards. Pitifully whimpering, trying to thrust his hips back and get _more_ and _now_ , Jack is stretched to breaking point around that wide notch of the base of the Master's thumb, and then all at once, he's painfully empty.

Collapsing, again, Jack sobs, 'Please, _please_.'

'I'm going to take this off,' the Master says, wiping his hand unceremoniously on the bedsheets. 'There's just one more thing I need you to do.'

'Yes,' Jack says, 'Anything, yes.'

The Master pinches the screw holding the cock ring in place, and it falls open, Jack groaning audibly as the blood tingles its way both in and out. 'I want you not to touch this until tomorrow. I won't break the Doctor's poor hearts, there'll be no mischief, I'll even go around planting flowers or whatever would bloody well please him. In return, you wait until tomorrow before you see me, and then you'll make yourself come.'

Jack blinks. 'What? Whuh--okay, okay.'

The Master arches an eyebrow. ' _Okay_?'

'Yes,' Jack corrects, groaning and rolling to his side. His erection throbs, demanding his attention, and he adds, 'Master.'

'Better,' the Master says, and just brushes Jack's hip to feed satisfaction up through his veins. His other hand touches the bar separating his legs, releasing the cuffs, and then picks at the knotted tie binding his wrists.

Freed, Jack grasps his hand, squeezing it fiercely. 'Don't leave. Don't leave me, let me…'

The Master allows the contact, but his hand is limp, cold. Jack abandons words and stretches his fingers down, running over the crisp weave of the Master's trousers, finding his fly where his cock lays, half-hard. He reaches inside, the skin of his thighs, perineum lukewarm and soft. Jack touches, gently, _lovingly_ , better than he ever has when he was forced to. Gaining no reaction, Jack shifts his body up to his knees, and winces because oh, he feels it now, and _fuck_ he's really out of practice, and brings his face to the Master's crotch and just breathes.

Finally, blessedly, he hears a hum of amusement. 'Please,' Jack adds, whispering it over the head of his cock.

'Fine. But hurry up,' the Master relents, resting a hand at the back of Jack's neck.

Jack closes his eyes, summons some moisture over the dryness of his tongue, and slips his mouth over the head. He sucks, gentle and consistent, rubbing the flat of his tongue against the underside. His hands run feather-light over the Master's skin and thin, wiry coating of hair - and yes, yes, he feels the flesh in his mouth grow harder.

Jack throws himself forward, moaning around the Master's cock, swallowing it down and huffing air through his nose. Working his throat, he stretches his neck until his breaths are thick with the unusual, metallic smell of his pubic hair. His spare hand claws at the back of the Master's thigh. He needs - he doesn't know, but he needs _this_ , he needs the taste of cool skin and the twitch of muscle under his fingers, the sound of the Master's breath shortening, he needs to give himself to something _real_.

Inhaling deeply, Jack works his way back to the tip, sucking hard, and plunging down. Slow, at first, until he can overcome the gagging at the back of his mouth, he starts a rhythm, and then as quick as he can manage. It's imperfect, it's difficult, his throat spasms every now and then and the Master thrusts his hips deep into any resistance Jack puts up, but he doesn't fuck his mouth. And Jack, wondering if this is a rare gift, a peace offering, responds with the enthusiasm and the passion he hasn't allowed himself. Not once, here. Not ever.

The Master comes with a stutter of his hips, missing Jack's tongue entirely and pulsing thickly down his throat. Jack swallows hard, running his tongue delicately over his entire length until it softens, and pulls back. He rests his face against the Master's thigh. He isn't pushed away.

'Very good, Jack,' the Master murmurs, treating him to a brush of fingertips through his hair. 'Do you want to stay, or leave and clean up?'

Panting, wiping a hand across his mouth, Jack leans back on his heels. He looks around; the bedsheets, stained wet and yellow, the Master's tie crumpled over the pillows. 'I...I'll clean up.'

The Master fixes him with one of those looks. It's knowing, like the kind Jack remembers, but empty of cruelty. 'Are you sure, Jack?'

Jack tries to make sense of the man in front of him, the one wearing the face of his nightmares. He wants nothing more than simple, physical companionship. His body is frozen, danger tolling incessantly from behind the clearing fog of _need_. 'I'll clean up.'

His thighs, shoulders, ache. Jack can't remember the last time he was tied up that didn't end, somehow, in death. Easing his way off the bed, legs sticky, Jack reaches for his trousers and gingerly slides them up. He slips his shoes on, then his shirt, buttoning it with shaking fingers.

'Oh, and Jack?' the Master's voice calls, zipping his own trousers. 'You won't forget, will you?'

'No,' Jack says, 'I won't.'

***

'Jack?' the Doctor says, nudging him with his elbow. 'C'mon, it's your turn.'

'Oh,' Jack says, peering at the chessboard. He has trouble remembering which move he last made, and settles for moving a pawn. He watches the board, the squares - he can't help wonder who decided how many there ought to be, what size.

'You know, I found this chessboard in the seventies,' the Doctor says, 'Not your seventies, the twentieth century seventies. I suppose that's very confusing, I really mean nineteen, nineteen-seventy. Somebody left it in an apartment I was renting. Martha and I were stuck there, we weren't _really_ renting, but we needed a job, you see, and you need an address for a job - somebody ought to do something about that.'

Jack's fingernail is dirty, just one. He picks at it, listening to the Doctor, watching his mouth shape the words. He thinks he might be tired, but has no interest in sleep. Neither does the Doctor, usually. He moves another piece.

'...good music, at least, not so keen on the fashion - Martha did a fantastic job at that,' the Doctor continues.

Jack doesn't even realise time has passed when he hears the Doctor's voice again, calling his name. 'Jack? Jack, hold on, you can't do that, you're in check.'

'Check?' Oh, yeah, right,' Jack says, and nudges his king to the side.

'Still check,' the Doctor says, shaking his head and grinning. 'Come on, you beat me last time.'

'Fluke,' says Jack, shifting a square right instead, 'You know, there are plenty of games I'm better at.'

The Doctor decisively places a knight down on the board. 'That's mate. And no, you're not going to distract me by flirting. I'm wise to your ways, _Captain_.'

'I can see that,' Jack deadpans. 'Another? You want something to eat? I dunno, tea, biscuits?'

'Nah,' says the Doctor. He shuffles around the other side of the chessboard, drawing his knees up to his chest. One hand lays across Jack's. 'What about we just sit? I've got a lot of time to make up for.'

Jack finds himself smiling. 'Where do you want to visit next? I know a great resort planet.'

'Oh, who knows? Maybe somewhere prehistoric. You have to be careful, the atmospheres tend to be wonky, but there's nothing like knowing you're the only life there. What about a megacity? We could visit a casino, Jack, I'm rubbish at casinos,' the Doctor muses, squeezing his fingers. 'I'm sure the Master would like that. No doubt he'd scam the whole place and I wouldn't have the heart to go cranky at him for it. What about your Earth, Jack?'

'Yeah, we could do Earth,' Jack says, and thinks of payment in broken bones and orgasms tearing him apart, 'Maybe not mine.'

'Probably a bit soon,' the Doctor agrees, 'But tell you what, how about New Earth? The grass tastes divine, I bet you've never tried it.'

Jack huffs a little half-chuckle, staring up at the lights. The halo spreads like a spider's web across his eyes, greens and purples ghosting over the roof as he blinks. 'Course I've tried it. You really think all the cadets didn't flock there as soon as we graduated?'

The conversation lulls. The Doctor looks off to the side, rubbing Jack's knuckles absently with the pad of his thumb. It jitters back and forth, a hurried rhythm that betrays the way his brain is whirling. 'Travelling like this? This is more than I ever thought I'd have. I don't know how to thank you.'

Jack blinks at him, and wishes he could feign confusion. Like the Doctor does. 'I'd do anything for you. I thought you knew that.'

'I didn't realise,' the Doctor says. 'Not properly. Why, Jack? After everything I've done.'

'Because I love you,' Jack says, struggling to keep his voice even, half-pleading and half-accusing.

The Doctor hugs his knees tighter. 'I probably deserved that one. I know, Jack. I know.'

Once, the empty space, unfilled by those words he's been waiting most of his life for would have destroyed him, and Jack is surprised to feel no anger, no pain. Just resignation. 'It's okay,' he says, instead.

'I'm sorry,' the Doctor says, floundering, 'It's the least I can do, I mean…'

'What is, Doctor?' Jack says, looking at him at last, and the Doctor bites his lip and then brings their mouths together.

Jack kisses gentle and solemn. This is an apology, after all, and he'll take his chance to grieve. He twists his fingers into the Doctor's in return, and squeezes back. He thinks it should be over, but the Doctor slips a hand around his waist, an embrace strengthened with a kiss and not the other way around. The Doctor's mouth parts to allow him to clasp his lower lip in his mouth, sharing breath. Their tongues don't touch.

They pull apart, but their hands are still entwined. Jack pulls the Doctor into his shoulder, his fragile, thin body cradled in his lap. He feels so very small, so temporary. To think that Jack could ever have imagined wasting a second of this finite time on heartbreak.

***

Jack closes his eyes, craning his neck up into the warm water. This bathroom is modelled after 21st Century Earth, a steel showerhead raining fat, heavy drops over his head. The water fills his ears, drumming on his skull. The noise is so very quiet.

He crosses his arms, clutching at his bare sides. His fingers are wrinkled, waterlogged, his legs sore from standing so long. Blinking his eyes against the water, his eyelashes stuck together, Jack eases his way down to the tiled floor. He angles his shoulders into the stream, and rests against the wall.

He retrieves the bar of soap from where he left it, sitting in the corner of the shower, and holds it under the shower until the soft flakes wash away. The surface beneath is hard, slippery, and Jack runs it rhythmically over his body; one arm, the other, chest, legs. He watches the lather rinse away, his body tanned, his muscles taut. Jack lifts his hands, trying to link the image of his arms turning themselves to the thoughtless intention of moving them, to the feeling of water running through his fingers. His palms are creased, fine lines deepening and blanching away as he stretches. His body is unscarred, pristine. He can't even remember all the marks he's supposed to have.

The water starts running cold. Jack waits for it to pass, as it usually does, but minutes later he's icy-numb. He stays, the cold almost needling painfully against his skin. He shivers, and bites his thumb and makes himself wait, just a little longer, before he shuts the water off.

Towel around his waist, Jack wipes the steam off the mirror and stares. His reflection stares back and Jack finds no connection in those eyes, the wet hair, the empty expression.

He unlatches the door and wanders back to his room, shivering in the chill of the corridors. His clothes are laid out on the bed; a fresh shirt, the same trousers - but clean, pressed. He can fasten the left shirt cuff, now, he's still missing his wrist strap. It feels strangely restrictive.

Going to face either of them seems like an impossible task. Jack lays on the bed, over the covers, waiting to warm up, waiting for his hair to dry. He could sleep, he thinks, he still hasn't managed to adjust to the circadian cycles in the TARDIS. Rest seems equally difficult to confront.

***

'Hungry?' the Doctor's voice calls, his head peeking in through Jack's door.

Jack turns his head, not quite able to bring himself back. He'd been drifting, again, thoughtless and awake. 'Probably, yeah. Come in.'

'Can't,' says the Doctor, 'I'll burn the eggs. Nothing worse than burnt breakfast. Have you been asleep all this time?'

Jack racks his brain, trying to think of when they last spoke. 'No idea. I wouldn't mind some breakfast.'

His legs are stiff, and the TARDIS's lighting is just starting to cycle from dark to light. Jack throws on his coat and closes the door behind him, looking expectantly at the Doctor, dressed in just his shirt and trousers.

'Oh,' the Doctor says, 'And this, too,' and plants a kiss on his lips, looking distinctly pleased with himself.

'Breakfast,' Jack says, 'You don't have bacon, do you?'

'Kind of like the imitation-leather, molecular assembler version of bacon - really, once you've fried it you can hardly tell,' the Doctor says, picking up his hand with pride. 'Off you go, this way.'

Jack is led into a large dining room. A gas stove is perched in one corner of the room, beside a simple steel sink, with bare plumbing anchoring it into the wall. The Master sits at a large pine table, rapping his fingers on the surface. He pulls up a chair for Jack. Bubbling away in a pan, hissing and spitting, are the promised bacon and eggs.

'So,' the Doctor says, poking at the food with a steel spatula, 'I thought we should plan our next destination. Somewhere less influential, a bit more...assimilated.'

'The Galactic Union of Socialist Republics? Unexpected, coming from you. Or,' a snicker, 'Perhaps not.'

The bacon spits, rattling the pan on the stovetop. 'No, no, I was thinking more of...a _melangé_. Somewhere we won't draw much attention. Hang on, just because I went to that _one_ celebration in the Red Square--'

Jack bites his lip and takes a seat.

'Ah, now he admits it.'

'--and frankly, I was there to meet the astronauts, and _you're_ the one who made himself a Tory.'

The Master shifts a hand under Jack's coat and lays it over his thigh. 'Your eggs are burning.'

'Right,' says the Doctor, and snatches the pan off the heat, retrieving a plate from the sink in his spare hand. He drops it on the table, and with some effort, wiggles the contents of the pan out.

Jack can feel the cold of the Master's fingers through the layer of his trousers. The Doctor leaves the pan on the table, and takes a seat opposite them. Glancing at him, the Doctor takes the crispiest piece of bacon, and chews on it thoughtfully. 'Bit same-ish.'

The Master pinches Jack's thigh, digging his fingernails in through the fabric. 'As prison-food goes, your TARDIS generates some of the worst I've tried. Or maybe that's just your cooking.'

The Doctor looks starkly, openly hurt. 'Is that really what you think? Still?'

Jack winces, shifting under the table. The grip tightens to bruising. 'Oh, calm down,' the Master says, chuckling, 'It's a joke. You're not allowed to be this serious before breakfast.'

'Oh,' the Doctor says, looking sheepish, 'I'm not, am I? Jack, my bacon isn't that bad, is it?'

Helpless, Jack cracks a smile.

***

Jack fights for every hysterical breath, his chest throbbing, air panting hoarsely in and out. He tugs for balance at the belt, his wrists swinging under the pipe. His fingers clench at nothing.

'More?' the Master says, with infinite patience. He presses Jack's face into the wall, slow and then crushing until he tastes blood and screams and fights to be heard over the machinery and the concrete grazing his lips.

His legs refuse to support his weight.  The back of his thighs burn, the cuts of the cane so vicious and deep his muscles feel like mince. He's stopped being able to feel them; a numb, thick haze of pain and swollen flesh. It feels viscerally wrong, like being shot and only realising when the smoke clears, when you try to lift someone to safety and see the shattered bone, the soaked clothes--

Another slice. His toes crumple over the floor, his broken nose cushioning the swing of his body. Jack moans wordlessly, beyond pain to ecstasy and back again, over and over, and tries to grab the belt, just out of reach.

The Master's fingers run over the ruined skin of his thighs and the only sensation that registers is a growing need to be sick, oozing from the inside of his stomach. He reaches between Jack's legs and tugs, and Jack focusses on nothing but catching his breath; in, out, in. The Master presses the tip of the cane into his balls, stretched taut. Another surge of adrenaline pulses through him and makes him pull away, sob when the Master squeezes and yanks him viciously back into position.

'Ready, Freak?' says the Master, tapping the cane against the skin of his thighs. It feels wet.

He can't do this.

The blow sends his vision tunnelling into black. He screams wretchedly and doesn't know how to stop. The pain has long since soared beyond his limits, exhausted him just trying to endure each second. He hears it, the swish of the cane through the air before he feels it, and it slams away his breath, gagging on his own empty, airless screams. The Master lets him go and he collapses onto his wrists, his toes dragging over the concrete.

'Do you remember, Jack? When I had your precious Doctor, right where you're standing? First his blood, and now yours. Tell me, what do you think of that?'

Numb, Jack shakes uncontrollably and begins to retch, choking on his own throat. But he does. He still remembers.

***

The Doctor's hand lies limply across Jack's thigh. In the dark, Jack can only make out his shadow, but he hears the Doctor's breaths whistling through his nose. He can smell him, crisp and clean, and Jack is subconsciously aware of the little flakes of blood in his hair, under his nails.

He bites at the corner of his thumbnail. It no longer tastes like copper and salt; it's harsher, fishy. The clack of his teeth is so loud in the air and Jack chews more delicately, scissoring little pieces of nail off. They collect in his mouth, gritty and sharp. He grinds his teeth, until the pieces are too small to keep track off and get lost in his mouth, and when the tip of his thumb feels abnormally sensitive he swaps to the next finger. He can't seem to rest; his teeth pick at the dried patches on his lower lip, the rough skin at his cuticle.

The Doctor begins to snore.

Somewhere, the TARDIS is humming, her engines keeping them adrift and powered in the vortex. Jack's been inside their searing heat, he's felt his body peel like burning newspaper from their force. But his ears are buzzing, and it isn't the engines, it's this feeling of awareness of his blood prickling under his skin and around his head. His eyes are still open and they dart around at sounds he isn't sure if he's imagining. He hears them like he'd feel an itch on an uncomfortable, too-warm night.

Jack rolls towards the Doctor, creeping closer. He watches those cheeks, soft in the shadows, the rounded-out margins of his hair. He shifts as close as he dares and rests his face near the Doctor's shoulder, wanting to hold him and not knowing if he should.

Time doesn't seem to pass. He knows Time Lords don't need as much sleep as humans, and the Doctor wouldn't mind if Jack woke him up for company. And still, this cold, quiet world seems untouchable, and the Doctor feels so far away from him Jack doesn't dare. Not unless he's desperate. Not unless he's willing to face the risk that not even the Doctor might be able to protect him from this unreality.

He shakes some sense into himself, tells himself off. He needs to _sleep_. He opens his eyes, blinking, making out the objects in the Doctor's room - bookshelves, trinkets, half-finished projects and loose papers. It grounds him long enough that he can close his eyes and will himself to stop thinking, at least.

***

Jack pauses for breath, flushed with exertion. His thighs tremble and he sinks back down, sheathing the Master's cock inside him, and _fuck_ it feels so stupidly good he grinds himself back and forth over it, rolling his hips into the Master's own.

The Master's hand is stretched out, his four fingertips pressed to the side of Jack's skull. 'Now,' he says, his voice sounding a little breathless, too, 'Relax, and try this.' His spare fingers pull at one of the hooks pierced  earlier, just above Jack's nipple, and Jack moans and rocks his hips up into the air.

'Like it?' the Master says, strengthening the connection - Jack can feel it, he can feel the way his pleasure and pain and every little square inch of sensation is pulled and played like a symphony - the sharp pain brought to the forefront, the slow, tugging ache of it the melody, and the pressure inside him the throbbing, undulating beat. He sees them in vivid colour, notes arching along a set of scales, currents swirling in the freshly-melted snow of a bubbling river.

Jack smiles dumbly and slurs, 'Yeah, God, don't stop.'

'Focus, now,' the Master says, and in those eyes Jack sees so much warmth and connection, in the Master's gentle smile. He trusts him, he wants - he needs to please him, to know that expression was made for _him_. The Master pulls his fingers away, one at a time. 'That's it, keep going.'

'Right,' Jack pants, and throws his mind out as far as it can go. The static clears to reveal paints, now, pottery, materials swirling and mixing - the oily, bright smoothness of acrylic between his fingertips, the earthy warmth of clay wet and moulded under his hands. The Master curls his fingers around all four hooks and slowly, steadily pulls. Jack sees his skin distend into thick peaks, blood welling where steel meets skin, but it feels like music building to a climax, like soaring choruses catapulting his soul over the beat and violins and brass that buoy him upwards-- _fuck_ , and then out loud, 'Fuck!'

His come arches across the Master's belly, and still, arousal thunders through him. There's a change in the tempo, the pain skittering out into a strobe light, flickering in the dark. The pressure within him becomes loud colours and shadowy bodies, the pulse of a dancefloor, the thud of a bass line vibrating through his chest. Jack moans, and curses and drives himself over the Master's cock over and over, hitting that spot in time with the beat with every thrust. His fingers tremble and Jack runs them over the Master's chest, gently brushing across his nipples, down the taut muscles at his sides. He arches down and presses his lips to the Master's, giving and sharing, and the volume turns up so high from that physical contact it consumes him and he cries out as a second orgasm hits him. The Master's face is pinched beneath his, and then he _feels_ it, the tight muscle clinging around his cock, the heat of it, the way he feels so _tight_ and so _close_ and he so desperately needs to just--just, yes, no, there - right _there_ \-- and the Master yanks at the hooks buried in his flesh and it hurts and they both gasp and Jack has no way of knowing whether it's taken him over again, too, just that the Master is sailing over the edge and for a moment, their bodies are just that one, shared sensation.

***

Breathless, exhilarated, Jack runs for his life, the Doctor's hand yanking him along through the bustling streets of New Tokyo.

'Hurry up!' the Doctor yelps, surging ahead, swinging his way around people, bins, vending machines -

Jack spares a look over his shoulder; he can't see the Master. Instead, he sees _keisatsu_ , and he catches sight of an energy weapon just in time to duck and pull the Doctor down with him. The bolt whistles over their heads, and the Doctor tears him to the right, onto the road - around cars, stationary traffic, cycles - and they break through to the footpath and keep running.

'We've lost him,' Jack pants, trying to keep his grip on the Doctor's arm as they push through carts and shoppers, 'Back there!'

'Oh,' says the Doctor, shepherding him through the curtains separating the stalls, oblivious, Jack dodging the shopkeepers, 'He's fine, he probably called them on us in the first place.'

Exhausted, Jack ducks into a rack of clothes, pulling the Doctor with him. He doubles over, trying to catch his breath. 'Are you serious?'

The Doctor laughs, a gasping, strained sound. Through rapid breaths, he grins at Jack. 'He knows I like the challenge. C'mon, we have to keep going.'

Jack nods, and ducks his head out, gesturing for the Doctor to follow, and they slow to a hurried stroll. The Doctor throws him an embroided, heavy piece of satin, drawing a second pale-lemon garment around his own shoulders. They walk, the Doctor linking arms with Jack and pretending to browse the markets.

Then a hand closes around Jack's arm, and Jack has just enough time to yelp before he's yanked behind a cart. Fists raised, Jack whirls around - and _of course_ \- 'You idiots, you're going to get yourselves killed! This way,' the Master hisses, and leads them down a back alley.

'Master!' the Doctor grins, 'There you are. I was starting to think you'd--' he pauses, freeing his jacket where it snags on a chain-link fence as they run, '--gone to help them chase us!'

The Master hesitates, and then flashes a perfect Doctor-imitation grin, and says, 'What, and miss out on all this running?'

'Shit,' Jack says, freezing, 'Listen.'

Sirens blare, louder and louder, and behind them they hear the yells and shouts of the Keishicho officers.

'Where do we go?' Jack says, eyes darting down the street - a dead end. 'If we turn around, we could maybe still make it.'

The Doctor shakes his head, and points at a dumpster. 'There!'

'You're joking,' says the Master, aghast. 'Really, tell me you're joking.'

'Quick,' the Doctor barks, holding the lid, 'Argue later, get in!'

Jack does as he's told, wincing as he angles his leg over the edge and hoists himself in. The Master fares no more elegantly, and they crumple atop some garbage bags, the Doctor joining them last. He pulls the lid closed, and they're left, squashed together, in the dark and the sickly-sweet smell of rotting trash.

Knees curled up, Jack winces and shifts. The stretch tugs brutally at fresh, dark bruises he knows are hidden under his trousers. Elsewhere he has other injuries, and they throb as one. He struggles to get comfortable, and the trash rustles, and the Doctor shushes him in a sharp hiss.

He can hear both their breathing. They hide, until the sounds of the _keisatsu_ blend back into the urban clamour. By then, the adrenaline has long faded.

***

'Are you sure?' Jack murmurs, looking up at the Doctor. His eyes are wide, pupils large and dark. He wears a slow smile, sitting beside Jack on one of his old, beaten-up Earth antique couches, his hand having found its way to Jack's knee.

The Doctor's smile twists up at the sides, and he tilts his head. 'Only fair, isn't it? I want to show you.'

Jack's heart, already pounding at a furious, and slightly embarrassing speed, flips in his chest. He smiles back, a proper smile, and says, 'Okay. But you just say stop. Or, I dunno, start rambling on about some adventure on Venus and I'll get the idea.'

'Deal,' says the Doctor, and takes Jack's hand with his cool, assured one. Only his eyes give away his nerves as he guides it to his shirt collar, and he curls Jack's fingers against his skin while he undoes his tie.

Jack's thumb brushes over the front of the Doctor's neck. 'Funny, I don't know why I expected you to feel any less bony than you look.'

The Doctor gives him a mischievous little grin, and slips the buttons of his shirt free. 'Well, get used to it.' He gently takes Jack's fingers and slides them down, showing them his collarbone. Jack shifts a little closer, and peers as he touches.

'You're so soft,' Jack says, reverent, mapping out the contour of his bone. He hooks his fingers in the hollow above it, making the Doctor duck his head, ever so slightly. Taking initiative, Jack wanders back up to his neck, tracing the lines of the Doctor's tendons, and then brushes his fingers around to cup the back of the Doctor's head.

The Doctor shivers a little under the touch, twisting his neck into Jack's wrist. Encouraged, Jack feels at the Doctor's nape, twisting his fingers through the fine, short hair. He massages his fingertips in a way he imagines feels quite nice, cupping his palm against the Doctor's neck and jaw.

'Jack,' the Doctor says, his voice bordering on a squeak. Jack rubs more enthusiastically in response, and the Doctor squirms away, and, giggling, says more loudly, ' _Jack_.'

'Ticklish?' Jack grins, taking his hand back to the Doctor's shoulder, but squinting at him playfully all the same.

The Doctor's eyes are bright, fond. 'No, no, it's...sensitive. Time Lord sensitive.'

'Oh,' Jack says, and then, ' _Oh_. Sorry.'

'Don't be sorry,' the Doctor says, and takes Jack's hand back to his sternum.

This is what Jack loves about sex; the way he feels like he's fifteen again, seeing a planet for the first time. It's new and exciting and he feels marvelled by every second of it. Linking his fingers in the Doctor's spare hand, resting between them, Jack continues mapping out the Doctor's body.

He runs his flat palm down over the Doctor's chest, feeling sparse, surprisingly soft hairs scattered over his skin. Jack smooths his way up to the right collarbone, slipping his fingers up under the Doctor's shirt to gently press at his shoulder muscles. Then, back down, sliding his palm over a firm nipple, and he shifts the shirt further aside to look, as well as touch. Glancing back at the Doctor for reassurance, which comes in a nervous squeeze of his fingers, Jack retraces his path with just the tips of his fingers. He pauses at the Doctor's nipple, gently catching silk-soft skin with his finger and thumb and not pinching, but caressing.

Eagerly, Jack watches the Doctor's reaction. He flicks his thumb over the tip, and the Doctor simply smiles and stretches back like he's enjoying the sun on a warm day. Jack releases the Doctor's hand and slips it under the other half of his shirt, sliding his palms down the Doctor's torso. His ribs stick out like piano keys, and Jack finds his softer middle and wraps his palms around his waist.

Somehow, the touch becomes an embrace. Jack smiles into the Doctor's ear, and says, 'Thank you. You're amazing.'

Jack can feel the Doctor press his lips together, and then grin, too. 'Thing is, you say it, but you really mean it, don't you?'

'Course I do,' says Jack, pressing a quick peck to the side of his head. 'You want to try me? Or we could go for a wander...a swim in the pool,' he says, the last with a lascivious tilt.

'Oh, don't worry,' the Doctor says, tapping his head, 'I've seen your naked body more times than I care to count. Garden?'

'Library,' Jack says, 'You have a graphic novel section and I haven't seen it.'

Swiftly re-buttoning his shirt, the Doctor ruffles his hair with one palm. 'Library it is.'

Jack smiles at him one more time, hesitant to leave this intimacy behind. 'And you're okay?'

The Doctor takes his hand and gives it a firm squeeze. 'Jack, I'm more than okay.'

***

Jack takes a deep breath. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles are being secured to the autopsy table of Torchwood Three, and the Master circles around him, tutting. At first, his breaths shake, but he slows them and closes his eyes until his mind starts to settle into the quiet, detached place where lets these things happen. His cheek is pressed against the stainless steel, and he can see, in perfect detail, the porcelain fittings. Owen's case of tools is left open on the bench, just how he remembers it.

The Master begins by washing his hands. The action is strange, to Jack, who knows it doesn't very well matter. He hears the water echoing in the small chamber, and then it stops.

His heart picks up its pace again as the Master nears him. Cold, damp skin trails over his shoulders, a finger tracing down beside his spine. The Master prods his back, pinching the skin in a way that feels measuring instead of sensual, or cruel. He finds the bones under Jack's skin and taps them, thoughtfully. Jack's breaths come slow and even.

'Do you know why the Doctor isn't interested in you?' the Master says, leaving him be to bend over the bench.

Jack knows better than to respond. He tries to close his eyes, but the Master has selected something, and it shines in his hand as he wanders back. He registers it as an uncomfortable prickling on his back, below his shoulders.

'No? Quiet today, aren't you?' the Master hums.

The prickling becomes sharp, finely-grit pain. Jack shifts, squirming away, and the blade is withdrawn. He hears a clatter.

The Master reaches into a familiar tangle of belts and begins laying them over the edges of the table. One is cinched tightly around his hips, others beneath his armpits and across the back of his splayed thighs . 'Comfortable?'

Jack swallows in response, and well-worn leather is strapped over his head. He gives an experimental wriggle and finds he has a few inches. He keeps them, saves them for later. When he really needs them, the thirty seconds granted by bucking away and garnering a second tightening of the restraints.

'Too quiet,' the Master mutters, and carves a deep, piercing line from his shoulders to the small of his back. Jack grunts, biting his lip, and breathes his way through the blossoming pain. The edge of the blade scrapes over the wound, pulling at its margins, and the sting of his raw flesh exposed to the air is almost worse than the cut itself.

The second cut slices deep into the wound, a sharper, more urgent kind of pain that makes Jack ill. He can't help a groan, one starts as a pained exhale and ends in a whimper. Sweat springs up on his back, his heart pounding in his head.

The Master shifts his angle, laying the blade an inch further to Jack's side. A second slice is made there, parallel to the first, and Jack shouts at this one. The pressure is firmer, and it takes longer, and he's broken his promise and shifted away as best he can. It grants him the most minute relief, until the Master's other hand pulls his flesh taut and presses him into the table.

The Master pauses. He runs his hand over Jack's flank and wiggles his undone trousers down as far as the  belts will let him. Everything is too warm. He can feel sweat springing up on his skin and drying in the air, and the Master's cool fingers are soothing over his buttock. The worst is where he's been cut, blood rushing and heating his back, and he feels cloyed by the damp layer of sweat.

Then, barely perceptible, something wet and lukewarm slides down his waist and pools at his side, and he knows it isn't sweat at all.

Jack loses track of where the next cuts fall. One lower, one higher, both straight across and dangerously close to the nerves of his spine. The shock of the first two has dulled his senses enough that these lose their sharp, burning quality and he keeps his lips bitten shut.

'I'd like to say it's because you're human,' the Master says, suddenly, and Jack's brain skips about trying to remember why. He's distracted by a maddening, wet, flicking sensation, where his bleeding skin smarts. 'But we both know better than that.'

It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt _yet_. But it drives Jack crazy, a not-quite pain that he only feels in the cooling drops of his own blood, in the skittering noise of the blade against his skin.

'Even for a human, he hardly looks at you,' the Master says, his words stopping short as if interrupted, and then continues, 'It gets you to sleep at night, doesn't it, thinking you're not the only one. You really think he sees himself above your kind, never allowing himself close enough to touch?'

Jack twitches at a particular _tug_ that hurts with renewed clarity. He clenches his fists, and it comes again, and his raw flesh stings like it's being cut from the inside. Teeth gritted, it becomes constant, and the only sensation that comes close to the pain is the sense that this isn't right.

The Master's fingers play with the broken skin, a touch that feels coated in acid. 'It isn't true. It's you, Freak. It's this. You're walking vertigo.'

Jack wants to say, _I know._

'You're like a cow with three heads,' he muses, and now it's back to the blade, 'A grotesque curiosity they'd keep in case some late-night telly show pays them to take photos, oh, but they'd never breed from you. Who'd want to eat that?'

Jack's fingers grasp at the edges of the table, and the pull beneath his skin that follows is so painful he clenches them back into fists. His hands shake.

'I wonder, though,' the Master says, 'if your hide is any good.'

The world threatens to fall out from beneath him. He stiffens, and thinks he could beg -  if it mattered what he said, if he could really make this stop. Could he?

The cutting begins again, this time in earnest, and he shrieks before he regains his control. Time stretches and he endures each second, his body prickling with the need to fight, run - and he's broken his promise to himself, bucking as far away as he can. The spare inches don't get him very far.

Jack doesn't realise he's holding his breath until the knife stops, and he gulps down air. His rapid breaths sound like a trapped animal to his own ears, frantic. He's gasped the words before he thinks about them - 'I can't, I can't.'

Fingers splay across the back of his neck. They're sticky with drying blood. Jack welcomes the touch and pulls himself together for one last moment, just enough to open his mind and invite him in.

His body buzzes with weightlessness. Jack smiles to himself, because this is where things can get dangerously fun. In this place he feels powerful, superhuman. Here, he floats above all of it.

The pain is under his control, now. He holds his breath through it and comes up for air as it ebbs in and out. His eyes fixate on a screw, out-of-focus, inches from his face. He's probably going to die like this and all he's thinking about is what it must be attached to. It's a silly thing to think of. He doesn't even have the presence of mind to work it out.

'You're doing well,' says the Master.

Jack shifts a little, and then comes the steady blade, and his muscles go slack and his limbs are heavier and boneless than in sleep.

A thin strip of ragged, wobbling skin is dropped in front of his nose. It's a pale, agar-like colour that seems disturbingly  translucent and lifeless. When the smell of blood hits his nose, he drops out of the clouds like a stone, and his control already relinquished, this time the panic is so much worse.

'Cow,' the Master repeats. 'The rest you can do on your own.'

Jack tries, he really does, but he's hardly managed to control the break-neck speed of his heartbeat when another deep cut ravages his side. He stares at his skin, his _skin_ inches from his face and thinks this might not stop, and he knows how far it can go until it kills him and the answer is too much for him to cope with--

'I can't, stop, just _stop_ ,' Jack demands, bucking savagely against his restraints.

Colder, the Master's voice says, 'You can. You're going to have to.'

Feeling small, Jack says, 'I can't.' And with a burst of nervous desperation, 'I'm done here.'

Time stops. He hears a clatter of steel again. 'Well,' says the Master.

It's a power he forgot he had. It feels dangerous, illicit, to break these unspoken rules he's clung to. The spark of forbidden excitement goads him on.

'This is it for today,' Jack says, swallowing away the taste of blood in the air.

For a terrible, awful second Jack feels the Master angry and above him, and thinks he's made the biggest mistake of his life. Then his wrist is freed from its cuff. He pulls his head free and looks up, expecting to see hissing rage.

The Master smiles at him, slow and greedy, from where he unbuckles the rest of the restraints. 'For today,' he agrees, and Jack breathes a sigh of precious relief.

He's gotten away with it.

***

Jack twists in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling at the skin on his back. The bleeding's stopped, at least. But he's left with a raw strip of open, bare flesh stretching down beside his spine that oozes fluid, its edges flaring bright red. The longer he spends away from that place, the more it starts to hurt. It started as an ache, and now even the air smarts.

Hissing, Jack rifles through the vanity, searching for some bandages. He finds a small, red box, tucked at the back of the cupboard and flips it open; there's antiseptic, some dressings, tape. Dressing his own back is harder than he gives it credit for.

Jack grits his teeth and splashes some antiseptic over his shoulder. It stings, but not as much as the whisky they'd poured on him in the War. Or worse things. He mops it up with gauze and daubs the excess over the wound, and struggles to tape more over it. None of the dressings are big enough to fit.

Exhausted, he gingerly slides his shirt back on, and returns to his room.

He hasn't had to heal on his own in a while. He can't get comfortable; his back is agony to lie on, his sides burn where they pull on his broken skin. Eventually, he rests face-down on the mattress, head cradled in the crook of his arm. There are marks, there, little pocks on his forearm where he's scratched at something absently.

***

The next few days pass quietly.

Jack lays in bed, or visits the bathroom to check on his back or gulp water from the faucet. He doesn't want to brave the shower; a thin, tight scab has formed across his back and he can hardly move without splitting it, much less wash. Of course, he can't see the Doctor - he winces when he moves, he walks like he has a stick up his ass.

The Master doesn't bother him, either. Jack is glad not to face what he's done. But it's fine, isn't it? He's allowed not to feel up to it sometimes. One time. He needs a break, too. He'll figure it out how to explain it later. Daydreaming, Jack thinks of how he'll really focus next time, do his best and moan like it's pleasure he feels, not pain. He'll take anything and put on a show while he does it. He'll even get himself hard from being hurt. The Master will be pleased with him again.

But for now, he sits cross-legged and watches TV on an old handheld video player he's scavenged from around the TARDIS. Some weird sitcom from a century he hasn't visited. It's good, to forget about it all.

***

His heart is pounding. He doesn't entirely know why; why he hesitates in front of his door, hand stubbornly clenched at his side. His back is half-closed, and it itches horrendously, but it doesn't hurt him to walk or move. He's been cooped up for a week, he doesn't need to stay here any longer.

And still, Jack can't seem to do it. He should - he should see the Doctor, hell, he should _eat_. This is crazy. He tells himself he'll go to the bathroom and have a drink to get himself out the door, and after he's quenched the dryness on his tongue, he gathers enough courage to tackle the rest of the TARDIS.

First stop is the kitchen. Thinking of food makes him realise how hungry he is, and he wolfs down anything the fridge gives him. The food weighs uncomfortably in his belly, it feels like it's stuffed between his ribs. He barely has a spare second to compose himself when the Doctor appears in the hallway, breaking into a grin Jack just can't give him back.

Maybe it's better this way. 'Hi, Doctor.'

'Jack!' the Doctor says, quickening his pace. He nudges the door shut with his elbow. 'I haven't seen you in ages. Got lost?'

'Movie marathon,' says Jack automatically, 'It's so easy to lose track of time in here, until you get hungry.'

Something isn't right with the way the Doctor ambles over to a chair, and lowers himself into it by his arms. He eases himself back, stiffly, and it makes Jack look harder at him.

'Harry Potter?' the Doctor says, smiling at him knowingly, 'Those are great. Oh, and Indiana Jones, I watched them all at once. Decided to try adventuring through some ancient civilisations of my own after that, bad idea. Very bad idea.'

Jack decides to sit opposite him. 'Have I missed much?'

'Nah,' says the Doctor. 'The TARDIS is a little wonky in flight, I want to check her stabilisers before we go anywhere else. Haven't really gotten around to it, mind you - actually, I'd appreciate an extra pair of hands.'

'Me?' Jack says, raising his eyebrows, 'I'd love to, as long as you don't mind me asking questions. I can fix up a spaceship, but half the time I can't even find my own room in the TARDIS.'

'Great!' exclaims the Doctor, and winces.  Quickly recovering, he continues, 'If you're going to stay on, it's probably a good idea for you to learn a bit about her.'

Jack leans in, looking him in the eye. 'Hey, are you alright?'

'Oh, I'm fine,' the Doctor says, and with a forced grin, 'Getting old.'

'You're not,' Jack says. 'Let me see.'

The Doctor deflates a bit, at that. 'Really, Jack, don't worry. Same old, same old.'

'Is it the Master?' Jack says, voice quiet. 'You can tell me.'

He hesitates. But, this time, he doesn't stop. 'It was my fault. Pushed him a bit far. He's just been so well these days, I didn't think about it. I should have been more careful.'

Jack looks at his feet. He feels cold. 'What happened?'

'He seemed completely fine,' the Doctor sighs, 'It was...nice, and I wanted it to be nice, too. I just went along with it. Then it was too late, and he, well. He hurt me. He usually does, and I should know better.'

He wants to smile, because the Doctor is being honest with him, is telling him - he thinks - something unspeakably private. He's past yelling, past shouting about it - he can't undo their history.

And then he just wants to die,  because this time, it's his fault, and only his fault.

'I'm so, so sorry,' Jack chokes out, hoping desperately the Doctor will know what he means without knowing any of it.

'It wasn't anything you did,' the Doctor says mildly, looking away. 'In fact, it only started getting better when you arrived. I have you to thank for everything. Never would have even found him in the first place without you.'

Jack composes himself in a shaky breath. 'But are you okay? D-did he, did he say why?'

The Doctor does squeeze his hand, then. 'Oh, Jack. Nothing I can't handle. He just, he can't do _this_ , how we are right now. That's what he knows, that's how we've always been. I think it'll get better in its time.'

'It will,' Jack blurts, 'It'll get better. I can promise.'

The Doctor pauses, and then says, 'Thank you. You're a better friend than I deserve.' He stares at Jack, just a little too long, and with his eyes hovering over Jack's lips. But Jack isn't interested, isn't thinking about him at all.

'Can I go? I need to shower,' Jack says, sliding his chair back and jumping to his feet.

A little taken aback, the Doctor sits up, too. 'Oh, anything, help yourself.'

'Thanks,' Jack says, and has to stop himself from running out of the room.

He'd forgotten. He'd been so concerned with what he wanted, with his own situation, he'd forgotten what was at stake. And Jack knows he's gotten off easy, this time, he knows it could be so much worse - he can't even stand to think about it, those people on Uthestra  Minor who had trusted them, and the Master would have killed as many as he could just to see the Doctor break. This is how it started, he's sure, and then the Doctor had become a hollowed-out stammering shell of himself, and he won't let that happen ever again. He won't lose anybody else. _Not him._

Jack hammers on the Master's door. It won't open, and he thumps his fist on it, and then he yells through the walls. Furious, he curses the TARDIS, why she won't let him in when the Master did this to the Doctor, when _he's trying to help_ \--

Then, he sees a hall light blink on, a few metres to his left. Jack follows it, a pathway lighting up before him, a strange route he hasn't taken before. It takes him to a plain door, and behind it a room full of display cabinets shelving the walls with rocks, minerals.

And there, perusing a book in an armchair in one corner of the room, is the Master. He doesn't look up.

'I'm,' Jack says, at a loss of what to say, and then takes his head in his hands. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, please, it won't happen again.'

'Doesn't make much sense to apologise,' the Master murmurs, still reading. His eyes flick up over the top of the book. 'The thing about a deal, is that I only hold up my end if you hold up yours. You remember our deal, don't you?'

Jack slides his hands over his face, fingertips touching over the bridge of his nose. 'I don't know what's wrong with me.'

'Second thoughts?' the Master suggests. 'But it wasn't worth it, was it.'

'Please,' says Jack, simply. 'I made a mistake. I won't do it again.'

At last, the Master puts the book down. 'Sit,' he says, and points to the floor.

Jack does, knees bent.

'Now,' the Master smiles, excitement blossoming in his grin, 'Beg.'

Jack licks his lips and tries to summon the words from inside him. 'Please, please let me be your--your plaything, anything you want. You don't have to hurt him. Please just have me.'

The Master shakes his head. 'No, no, _no_. I said, beg. Like a dog.'

Jaw falling open, Jack hesitates, and then shifts onto his knees. Hands pulled up like paws, he pants, and when he can't take it anymore he closes his eyes and whines through his teeth.

The Master's laughter is cold and high. 'Who's a good boy? Come on, now. Let's see if I have a treat for you.'

He uncrosses his legs and stands, peering around the room. Wandering deeper, he finds a cabinet and rummages inside it, taking a few bundles of rope. From his pocket, he pulls out a switchblade. Returning, he crouches next to Jack, and trails a fingertip down his nose. 'Stay.'

Jack leans back on his heels, and watches as the Master folds a length rope in half. He winds it around Jack's neck, until a thick collar of rope is coiled under his chin, and then he ties off the free end. He binds Jack's hands together in front of him, and tugs the makeshift leash to face him towards the door. His hands are taken over his head, and he lies down and lets them be tied to a bolt in the floor, somewhere out of his vision.

The blade extends with a sharp _click_ , and Jack jerks violently as the knife rips through his shirt, leaving it in tatters around his forearms. It's tossed aside, and then his trousers are pulled down alongside his pants.

Jack vows to make it perfect, this time. He rocks his hips into the air, spreading his knees wantonly. Moaning, he twists his head into his shoulder and tugs at his bonds, thrusting upwards. The Master hums in amusement and curls a hand around his hip, and Jack shifts and tries to rub himself against it.

'It's such a shame,' says the Master, 'You're gorgeous, like this, and the Doctor never sees it.'

As if he's too gone to speak, too desperate for words, Jack gasps and moans with frustration he doesn't yet feel. But the act is working, and he feels the first few sparks of arousal, and he thinks of the pale skin of the Doctor's chest and tonguing his way along that sensitive nape, and then - _then_ \- maybe he'd even - and yes, he's getting hard.

The Master rubs his thumb over his hipbone, and cards through his hair to give him a few, firm strokes. Jack smiles and twists into him, groaning in his throat.

The Master's hand becomes more gentle, barely-there. 'That's it. Good dog.'

He's in a good mood, Jack thinks, and then returns to focussing on his erection. He meets the Master's thumb and forefinger on every movement, and wiggles his hips up to expose his hole. Obligingly, the Master presses the tips of his first two fingers into Jack's mouth,  Jack swirling his tongue around them and sucking eagerly. Cool, wet, he relaxes and allows them to be pressed inside of him, and lets out a little cry of pleasure.

'I have another deal for you,' says the Master, feeling around inside of him. He curls his fingers upwards, gently, searching. 'Do you want to come?'

'Yes, Master,' Jack breathes, rocking his hips down onto the Master's first set of knuckles. He gasps, like it's hit something _really good_ , and jerks upwards. His cock lies against his belly, fully hard.

With his spare hand, the Master picks up the knife, and curls the handle in his palm. He grips both the knife and Jack's cock in his fingers, squeezing, and rubs his thumb just under the head. 'Then this is going inside you. No, not _there_. Your thigh. Right, I think today.'

Jack only falters slightly. He nods, and whimpers and bucks himself into the Master's hands, and lets himself be touched. Worked inside and out, he closes his eyes and focusses for a while on the pleasure, and lets every bit of it show on his face and in his breath. It only lasts for a time, enough to have him aching. Then there's a knee levered on top of his own, and the point of a knife pressed above it, over the flesh of his thigh.

Taking a deep breath, Jack opens his eyes, and cries, 'Please, Master, do it, I _need it_ -'

At first, all he feels is a punch. Then searing, overwhelming pain, and he lets himself scream as loud and as long as he needs. Through it, far away, he feels the Master keep stroking him, and as the shock numbs him the pleasure of the tight grip on his cock grows stronger.

Then, without warning, the Master freezes. Body stiff, Jack feels him twist his fingers, whipping them out of his body. Something's wrong.

Jack opens his eyes, and the pain, the fleeting arousal drop away in an instant at who he sees. Everything drops and shatters, a thousand mile fall in half a second.

'Jack, I was--oh, _Jack._ '

  



	13. IV: Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stale compromise, lost chances, and lies, lies, lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Guys I am SO sorry. I know it's been an unfathomable amount of time and it sucks because it was such a nasty cliffhanger, too. Which, to be honest is one of the reasons it's taken me so long to post this - I was too afraid to approach writing this very delicate chapter for ages, and then it had to be Capital P Perfect, and yeah. Is it perfect? Not sure, but it's the best it can possibly be.
> 
> The other reason is having recently broken up with my partner, who was one half of the motivation (and the beta!) for getting to the end of this story! But rest assured, I am so damn determined to see this through - this story is not over yet. There are a whole four circles of Hell left, surely. With that said, if anybody is interested in beta-reading for this fic and poking through some heavy and nasty stuff, please leave a comment and we can chat :) I never have enough betas!
> 
> Now. Go forth and enjoy the filth (and the answer to the question since like, Chapter 1.)

The world stands utterly still.

And then, the Doctor, his eyes darkening cold and cruel, for one shining, righteous moment - until he looks down, really looks - at the blood dripping thickly from Jack's thigh, at the ropes binding him, at the Master still crouched between his bare legs. And something breaks.

Jack is forgotten. The Doctor stares only at the Master, pleading, as if he can pierce through his very soul if he tries hard enough. And the anguish, the utter bewilderment in his voice is enough to break Jack's heart, as his eyes grow wet and his hand tugs through his hair, and he begs: ' _Why?_ '

A spasm of pain, shooting up his hip, makes Jack jerk in his bonds. Gasping, he says, 'Please, Doctor, it was my idea, it was all my idea—'

A tremor passes through the Doctor's jaw, and he slumps heavily to the floor, holding his head in his hands. 'I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Jack. I should never have let you stay.'

His brain flooded with exhaustion, panic, shock, Jack begins to weep. He needs to think, to take control - but a floodgate has been torn down, by pain and submission, and he's helpless to the tide that now overwhelms him. He gasps harshly into the crook of his outstretched arm, his thigh throbbing and fuelling the flow of tears down his cheek.

The Master crouches forward, and lays an arm over the Doctor's shoulders. 'Doctor. Doctor, listen to me.'

The Doctor simply shakes his head, even as he looks out from behind his fingers.

'He's telling the truth,' the Master says. Low, calm. Gentle. 'This - he wants this. He needs someone to give it to him.'

The Doctor simply stares out to space, and numbly asks, 'How long?'

'Since the planet,' the Master says. 'Doctor. He came to _me_. I've only done what he asked; nothing more, nothing less.'

'How can you expect me to believe you?' the Doctor snaps, voice suddenly thick with emotion. 'He asked for…for _torture_? Rape?'

The Master edges around, placing both hands on the Doctor's shoulders. 'He asked for _help_.'

The Doctor looks up. He takes a shaky breath, and finally - looks to Jack. 'Tell me, tell me he isn't lying. Please, tell me this is some big misunderstanding, that he hasn't—all this _time_.'

Jack can't bear to answer. He cries, unable to make it stop, unable to make sense of anything except the end of his world, again. A year of his world whirling into some new hell, over and over again. 'It's my fault, please, it's all my fault.'

'He needs this. And if he'd come to you, Doctor, if he'd asked you to hurt him - he thought your hearts would break,' the Master says, slow and gentle and clear.

The Doctor's eyes change. He gazes down, now, ancient and sorrowful and kind. He slides free of the Master's hold, and shuffles over Jack's head, cradling it in his cool palms. Shaking fingers stroke through Jack's hair, brush his tears away. In that moment, Jack knows comfort, a deep grounding the Master's empty pleasure could never bring him.

The Doctor's eyes implore deeply into his, wide and loving. He brushes a hand across Jack's forehead, wiping away the hair plastered to his skin with sweat. 'Is it true?' he says, softly.

Jack only wants this moment, this anchor in the middle of the storm, to never end. All he can think to say is, 'Yes, yes, don't go, yes.'

'Oh, Jack,' the Doctor murmurs, and presses his lips to his forehead. 'I'm not ashamed of you. I never was.'

The Master looks at him gravely. 'Then touch him. He's begging for you to do this, Doctor. He always was.'

The Doctor swallows, suddenly returning to panic. 'You can't—I, you want me to—I can't. I couldn't.'

'Go on,' the Master repeats. 'You're not ashamed? _Show_ him. _Touch him_.'

They stare at each other as if locked in battle. Jack doesn't see the Doctor's face, can't catch his eyes, before a cold, hesitant finger traces down his jaw. It skitters along his neck, as if his skin is a butterfly's wing and he'd die if the Doctor just pressed too hard. The touch travels over his sternum, pausing there like he's been interrupted mid-speech, before skating over his clammy flesh to Jack's nipple.

The Doctor hesitates. Beneath him, Jack hardly dares to breathe.

'Hurt him, Doctor,' the Master instructs. 'See how good it makes him feel.'

The Doctor bites his lip. He glances between them both, and then like ripping off a plaster, he savagely digs his fingers into Jack's nipple and twists.

Jack's fantasized about this. He's dreamed of the Doctor, of his rage and cruelty and heart and passion all focussed on him, on wringing his body dry. A moan escapes him, reedy at first and then loud and longing, and his hands stiffen and claw at the air above him.

The Doctor is looking down at him, curious and wide-eyed and still unsure. Something dark like lust lurks behind his eyes.

The Master nods. 'Good.' He presses the Doctor's hand more firmly over Jack's chest, and says, 'Now do it like you mean it.'

The familiar determination comes across the Doctor's features, and his teeth ease their worrying on his lower lip. Concentrating, now, he uses a thumb and two fingers to grip Jack's nipple again, but this time his nails are like talons and he pulls with the kind of force that threatens to sever flesh from body. Jack howls, this time, and the Doctor's tongue pokes between his teeth as he pulls harder still, until Jack starts to break into a scream.

Panting, Jack grins reflexively, out of fear or exhilaration or discomfort he doesn't know -  even madness. The Doctor's focus breaks and he squeezes Jack's shoulder, smiling down at him with a cautious joy that makes Jack swell with happiness. It's enough to dull the ache in his thigh, it's enough to make the first threads of lust snake down his core.

The Doctor, kneeling over him, looks along the length of his body. He traces over the handle of the blade lodged inside him, suddenly lost in thought, half-angry and half-sad. 'This must hurt,' he says, softly.

Jack finds his tongue and mumbles, 'Don't touch it, I'm okay, just don't—'

'Distract him,' says the Master, still staring down the Doctor. He holds him with his gaze like a complex experiment, willing the very atoms of him to obey by his focus alone. 'You have to help him through it.'

The Doctor whips his hand away, as if burnt, and considers Jack's cock. The Doctor's eyes, dark and wide and innocent, staring so shamelessly at his nakedness make his heart race. He can feel his cock filling against the crook of his hip, and the Doctor draws his fingers around it.

Jack's heart skips a beat. 'Oh, God,' he hisses, but his hands are so gentle as he weighs the length in his palm and curls his fingers tight.

The Doctor starts a slow, even stroke. He glances at the Master, once, but his focus is on Jack's flesh, Jack's reactions. 'Is this okay?' he murmurs, squeezing as Jack feels himself grow harder still.

'Please,' says Jack, tossing his head back, 'Please, don't stop.'

As if considering this seriously, the Doctor pauses. 'Master, you don't have anything I could use—'

'No,' the Master cuts in. 'You have his mouth, his blood. _Use_ him. Give him what he wants.'

Teeth worrying at his lower lip, the Doctor trails his fingers through the sticky, warm blood pooling down Jack's thigh, and gathers it in his palm. Jack can't draw his eyes away from that deep, dark red - until slick, warm pressure envelops the head of his cock and squeezes and pulls, and his eyes fly shut with a gasp.

He can feel his orgasm building. It's waiting, out-of-reach, while the Doctor slowly draws his fingers around his cock, up and down and a gentle twist of his palm over the tip. He knows what to do. And Jack could chase it, he could let himself go, but he's realising this is the first time the Doctor will ever see him come and he doesn't want it to be like this.

He doesn't want any of it to be like this.

Then the Master's fingertip curls over his hip and finds the hilt of the knife, coming to rest on the tip of the handle. 'Give him more, Doctor,' he says, amusement dancing in his tone, and he meets Jack's eyes and holds them.

A part of him feels anger, and hurt, so keenly he could snap the ropes binding him and throttle the Master, could tackle him to the ground. The hatred rattles around inside of him, trapped there by an overwhelming helplessness that locks down his muscles and leaves him lying there. Helpless and hard.

The Doctor works him faster, now, so that the pleasure of each stroke blends into the next and multiplies. He could come, he could hold back, but in time he won't be able to stop himself—then pain lances through his leg with renewed venom. Just the Master's index finger, working the handle of the knife back and forth against his flesh. Jack gasps and twists away, but a knee clamps down over his own and pulls his skin taut around the knife, and he howls.

Distantly, he realises the Doctor's mouth is on him. But it brings him no relief, the pleasure just another sensation to cope with, a fly buzzing at him while he tries, desperately, to hold on through the waves of agony jolting up his hip.

He comes, he can feel it in the rhythmic tremors and twitches of his body, in the heavy feeling left in the hollow of his pelvis. The renewed intensity of the pain seems to accommodate itself, with numbness and the sense of dreamlike detachment from his body.

Nobody is touching him, anymore. He feels adrift.

The Master is soothing the Doctor, a hand running possessively down the back of his head to rub at his shoulders. 'That's it, just like that. You did very well.'

The Doctor crawls out from the Master's hold and strokes Jack's hair. Blood is smeared around his lips. 'Was it good?'

Jack turns his face into his shoulder, biting his lip to keep it from trembling.

The Doctor starts, and says, 'Master, we have to do something about his leg. He's had enough.'

With a cruel twist of his lips, the Master says, 'Snap his neck. He'll bleed out, anyway. Best to make it nice and quick.'

Like lightning, the Doctor's fingers clench into a fist, and relax almost as quickly as the impulse had arrived. 'How can you say that? No matter how bad it was, I'd never just, just—'

'This is as much as he's agreed to take. Any pain you put him through now, Doctor, is on you,' the Master says, lips pressed together. He gives the Doctor one last, long look as he leaves.

And then, finally.

The Doctor cups his jaw, cradling his head in his lap. Jack would endure any torture to let this moment never end.

'I'm going to take care of you, okay?' the Doctor says. 'He's too dangerous for this, Jack. He should never have taken it so far.'

Jack turns into the Doctor's palm, enough that his lips can press a dry, limp kiss to his hand. His eyes are stinging.

The Doctor's embrace leaves him. Instead, he feels hands near his hip, where pain radiates dully. The silk of the Doctor's tie is being wound around his leg, just above where the handle is buried hilt-deep.

'Okay, Jack,' the Doctor murmurs, bracing his leg with one hand, and the other gently clasping the knife. 'I need you to take a deep breath for me.'

Jack does, a hitching, wretched gasp—and with a splitting agony, the ruby-red steel is pulled free and tossed to the floor. His blood gurgles out, thick and torrential. The Doctor tightens his tie over the wound, wrapping the remainder around once more and levering the weight of his body on his palms against it. The blood soaks through, wetting the Doctor's hands, pressed to his thigh with such strength the knuckles stand out white. The scraps of his clothes are wadded up and added to the bulk of material, and eventually, the blood slows to a thick seep.

Jack is perilously dizzy, his forehead slick with sweat and his heart beating a frantic rhythm against the inside of his chest.

'You'll be okay,' says the Doctor. 'Stay with me, now.'

His ears are ringing, the Doctor's voice muffled as if he's hearing it through a wall. Things prickle and fizzle out - grey, then welcoming black.

 

***

 

Jack wakes in his bed. A low, dull throb permeates his entire right leg, and his mouth is so dry he can hardly move his tongue.

The Doctor is there. His thumb rubs over the back of Jack's hand, slow and soft. 'I've brought you some water,' he murmurs.

Jack feels too weak to even sit up. He shifts and tries to coordinate his shaking limbs, but the Doctor places the rim of a glass at his lips. He gulps it down greedily. 'Feel like shit,' he rasps, and waits for the Doctor to refill the glass.

'You'll be okay,' he says, smoothing Jack's hair down while he drinks. 'Take it easy.'

Then he remembers why he's here.

He hasn't the faintest clue where to begin, how to even think straight, but his mouth opens. 'I'm sorry,' tumbles out, 'You were never supposed to…'

The Doctor hushes him, and pulls Jack's head to rest into the crook of his neck. 'It's okay. It's okay.'

Jack doesn't know what to say. He's weak, exhausted. He lets the Doctor hold him. The Doctor's hands embrace him, fondly, and he feels his breath ghost across his ear. Those hands and mouth had brought him to orgasm, that same touch had kept him alive.

They belonged to a man who had done nothing as the Master abused him. Who had watched, transfixed, as Jack arched under the pain he'd caused.

And Jack had wanted it.

The Doctor releases him, easing him back onto the bed. He pulls the covers up around Jack's chest and nestles them in, and in an uncharacteristically human gesture, he climbs to the other side of the bed and lays down next to Jack. He's careful as he shifts on the mattress, where Jack's leg flares at the slightest movement.

'I wanted to talk to you,' the Doctor says, and this time, there's no distance between them. The Doctor's body, resting against his, his face so close Jack can make out every pore, each hair. 'About the War.'

The barrier between them has been torn down. At first, it startles him, until he realises this is it - the Doctor, his hearts bare. Jack, for a moment, thinks it might have been worth it. Everything.

Or maybe it wasn't, and he's lost everything and now he's in too deep to get out. And maybe it's just kinder if he believes it was a choice.

The Doctor's hand is resting over his, firm and sure and no longer awkward. It makes Jack's heart melt with a warmth he hasn't felt in so, so long.

'Sure,' Jack says weakly, 'I'm a bit woozy, but I want to.'

The Doctor takes a deep breath. 'The thing is, Jack, about the War.'

Jack nods to him, and squeezes his hand.

'You couldn't imagine it,' the Doctor begins. 'The horrors that were born and destroyed, over and over.'

He swallows, takes a breath. 'I saw a woman die - a Time Lady. I felt her die, I could hear her mind. Just screaming. You see, time was so fractured by that point, sending foot soldiers out into the rift-fields was…well, suicide.' The Doctor's voice tightens, but doesn't falter. 'Not for the Council, of course. They had millions of us loomed. You know, a Time Lord spends a good century in the Academy, before being awarded their title and the rights of their House. And those children - because that's what they were, children - were loomed fully-grown and sent out to die. A little more efficient, than the breeding programs they forced on the Gallifreyans, and, of course with thirteen lives, they lasted a little longer before having to replace them.

'So, of course, I decided to go. I was sick of the grand plots, and the machinations they'd send me on - the way it felt, unravelling entire civilisations before they'd even begun, oh, it was enough to drive anyone mad.'

Jack's eyebrows furrow, and the Doctor adds, 'Time, I mean. Those sorts of paradoxes aren't meant to happen, and to think of them at that sheer _scale_ , Jack. So there I was, on the front line, ready to die to make my point. The very fabric of reality was in fragments. She didn't just get shot - the moment of her death slipped between those broken timelines, between one state of reality and another. She was trapped there, frozen in that moment of dying. I could have tried to save her, return her to her timeline. Let her pass.' The Doctor takes a shaky breath. 'But I turned my back, because I was so afraid that if I touched that timeline, I'd fall in with her.'

He turns away. 'She might still out there, in some un-dimension. The Void. Dying forever. Happened to some of the Daleks, after all. And there were millions of them - people, planets, galaxies - just like that. Usually worse.'

Jack can't fathom what to say.

'And then, of course, the Council began negotiations with the Daleks. Not peace-time, oh, no - Romana said—I was told they were _signing an alliance_. Ready to wage war against the universe, to bring all that devastation across the whole of time and space, as long as it put them on the winning side,' the Doctor spits.

He looks at Jack, squeezing his hand. His voice cracks. 'And you know what happened, in the end? I killed more than either of them put together.'

'There was nothing you could do,' Jack mumbles, feeling utterly inadequate. 'I'm so sorry, but there was nothing else you could have done.'

The Doctor tilts his head up, as if a particularly interesting insect has landed on the ceiling. 'Yeah. But that means I know better than anyone, pressing the big red button? Nothing, compared to having to live with it.'

Jack swallows, dry and thick against his throat. 'I don't understand.'

'I think you do,' murmurs the Doctor. 'I think you feel the same way I did. Still do. Anything to make it better, anything to make it stop. Anything that makes you feel like at least somehow, you're making amends. There isn't enough penance in the universe for what I did, nobody left to forgive me. You think that stopped me from trying?'

Jack simply nods, unsure.

'All my family, my children, my friends, they're all gone,' the Doctor says. 'And then, all of a sudden, I find him.' A pause. 'Of all people. And I loved him, once.'

'I know,' Jack says.

The Doctor looks down at their joined hands. 'I don't want to see you suffer, not when it's my fault any of this ever happened—'

'Please,' Jack says, 'Don't say that. Don't ever say that.'

'But when you say you need to, when you need _help_ \- I know. I really do. If this is what you need, Jack, if this is what you really, really need…' the Doctor takes a thick breath. ' _I understand_.'

Jack feels his eyes grow wet. He lets it happen, and he hates himself, because then he lies and says, 'Oh, God. Thank you.' He cries, for an entirely different reason while he utters a litany of lies; 'You're right, you're right, thank you, I love you, thank you—'

And he's both in too deep, and the Doctor is holding him and kissing his forehead, and he doesn't want to get out.

 

***

 

At some point in time, Jack falls asleep.

He wakes to his hands, wrenched out in front of him and tugged ruthlessly onwards by three UNIT soldiers. He should be remembering his surroundings, observing, plotting escape, but he can only stare at his wrists. He hasn't seen them in a while, after all. Deep gouges have rotted away his flesh to the muscle, and what is left of his wrists is thick and crusted with half-formed scabs and old blood.

He can't feel much of his fingers anymore. Or his shoulders, for that matter, despite the death-like rigor the soldiers had struggled to twist his arms out of, long after the shackles had been removed.

His legs, on the other hand, are in an extremity of pain that he can only compare to frostbite, as if his whole lower half has been frozen and re-thawed. They won't move. He stumbles, half-dragged, half-yanked across the gritty floor. If he wasn't so fucking exhausted, he'd scream.

The soldiers aren't enjoying themselves either. Despite the guns prodded at his back, they must be under strict orders not to kill him. He's too tired, too hungry, too weak to care much what that means. Ha. Advantage, him.

The floor changes. His shins are no longer being skinned by metal catwalks and unpolished concrete, no, there's linoleum here. Jack grins, crazed. He can feel his lips splitting beneath it. Now there's polished wood. Hell, if he was going to end up on TV, he would have asked them to turn the fire hose on him before leaving.

They release him all too soon, and completely devoid of strength, Jack hits the floor and stays down. His body curls in on itself.

It's bliss.

The tip of a leather shoe prods his cheek. It nudges his head upright, and when Jack makes no effort to keep it there, it slams into his nose. Jack hisses, laughs a couple of breaths, and cares too little to do anything more.

'Isn't it disgusting, Doctor? No, _hush_ —you don't get to complain. You can't even smell it.'

Jack tries to wiggle his fingers. A couple of them even twitch.

A groaning, raspy wail sounds from far away.

The Master's feet pause in front of him. 'Oh, somebody slap him.'

The barrel of a semi-automatic is digging into his ribs, rolling him onto his back. Above him, the Master's voice booms.

'Can't you feel that? It hurts just to look at it,' he comments, idly. 'Look what you've done. Weren't your human pets repulsive enough already?'

Jack can hear the rattle of china. It tinkles and chatters, like cold teeth.

'Oh, but that isn't even the real sideshow, Doctor,' the Master laughs, his voice cold and high. _'_ Do you know the Freak _loves_ you? On and on, he cries, Doctor _this,_ Doctor _that_. So much loyalty. Do you feel like you deserve it?'

He hears it, sees the flash of ammunition before he feels anything. Four rounds, rapid-fire into his shin. The _punch-crack_ shudders all the way up his bones, and a scream tears from his throat and seems to last and last. He can't breathe and he gasps but he still can't make it stop.

Blood is pooling, rapidly. He'll die soon. It'll be over.

And then it'll start again.

'But this is what loyalty to you is worth, isn't it? I wonder what your turnover period is like these days - why, Doctor, it's been centuries since I saw any of your pets twice.' Jack hears the snick of the laser screwdriver, twirling in the Master's fingers. He feels wetness on his cheeks. 'Did you think of that, when you asked poor Ross to help you?'

The Doctor's voice, withered, hoarse. 'Don't, don't—'

An inhuman, strangled noise echoes across the bridge. It stops abruptly, followed by a sharp thump and the slapping noise of flesh. Hungry enough to smell anything a mile off, Jack's nose interprets the burning fat and skin as hot, charred bacon, a cast-iron pan.

'See, it doesn't bother me that you betrayed me. And for every rebel, there's a hundred more so desperate to please me, to earn my favour.' The Master's voice continues, above him. Jack's blood is spreading towards his feet, his own breath a harsh sob in his ears. Jack thinks of bacon and eggs, bacon and toast, fried on a cold morning in the trenches, breakfast in bed with a cheeky grin—'You've always betrayed me. What bothers me, is that you,' he pauses, flicking blood off his shoe, ' _you_ thought you were doing the right thing. Saving someone. You always think you're _saving_ someone.'

'Take Jack,' the Master says, and kicks him over to his side. His foot lies at a grotesque angle, glistening with his blood. 'Did you tell him he could be better, too? That he didn't need to do this? That you'd help him?'

Jack can see a body in front of him, seared and twisted. He's just a kid, barely Ianto's age. ( _Better him than them_.)

The Master's heel comes down on his shattered leg with a wet _crunch_. It takes a moment for Jack to realise that awful shriek, that ear-splitting inhuman noise is his. For a moment, his vision whites out, his own scream still echoing in his ears.

Something is tapping against the bridge of his nose, something hot and metallic. Jack opens his eyes, not to the barrel of the gun, but the laser screwdriver. 'If you're not going to use your eyes for watching, then why do I bother letting you have them?'

Jack shakes his head in mute terror, his body drenched with sweat. His mouth opens to plead but the noises come out garbled with pain.

The screwdriver moves to his ruined leg. 'Close your eyes, and I'll hurt you in ways you couldn't even _imagine_.'

Months ago, Jack would have squeezed them shut and laughed. Months ago, Jack still called him Saxon.

The whine of the screwdriver sings through the air, and it begins, as it always does, with heat. Jack is so deep in shock, he feels little else, but he can smell burnt blood and hear it fizzing. He stares doggedly at the soldier's body, at the grimace fixed permanently onto his young face. He stares like the world depends on it, even as his eyes burn from the smoke, as his back arches because it _hurts_ and he just wants to rest, just for one moment—

A young, high voice. 'M-Master, Sir, if y-you'd like your, y-your tea—'

Jack shifts his head one agonising inch backwards. The chattering of plates suddenly comes back into focus. _Tish_.

The noise of the screwdriver stops. Jack slumps to the ground, panting harshly. The Master leaves him and walks over to her, amongst her family, cameramen, servants, soldiers - and Jack's first thought is relief, because _at least it's not him_. Then, paralysing shame, because he promised to protect them, and he should be able to do that, he isn't broken—

But still, he lies there and makes himself small, and thanks deities he doesn't believe in.

The Master stands so close to her, his face brushes the top of her hair. 'Tea?' he says, pleasantly. 'How very _kind_ of you, to think I'd like some tea.' He grips her wrist holding the tray. 'Why oughtn't I like some tea? It's not as if I'm, say—' he gestures to the room, '— _busy_ , or I've asked not to be interrupted.'

'Sorry, 'm sorry Master, please, I'm sorry,' Tish stammers, her eyes wide and wet.

His eyes lock onto hers, and he takes the teapot from its plate. 'Don't be silly, Tish. Of _course_ I'd like some tea.' With a savage tug on her wrist, he tips its contents over her arm. Boiling water and steam splash over the floor and Tish _shrieks_ and drops the tray. He keeps pouring, until her arm is red and shining raw, and her cries become hysterical and gasping. When he releases her, she whips her hand away and cradles it to her chest, shaking.

'Pick it up,' the Master says, nodding to the floor and smashed china.

'P-please,' Tish cries, 'please, don't.'

The Master begins to move towards her, but Francine Jones places herself between them. He stares both of them down. 'Pick. It. Up.'

Jack wants to die. The Master walks back towards him, and he knows it wasn't worth it, he should have done something, he should have said something. He cowers, curled in on himself, clothes stuck to his skin with blood and sweat. He's shaking. He should be dead, why won't he just _kill_ him already? He shouldn't have lasted this long.

But he isn't bleeding anymore, the mangled flesh of his leg seared and burnt. The Master smiles down at him, foot poised over his useless, rigid hand. 'Now, Jack. Handsome Jack. Let's show the Doctor just how _much_ you're willing to do for him.'

'No,' Jack gasps, 'no, no more.'

The Master laughs, a thin, cold sound. 'Go on. Say _please_. Say, _please, Master_.'

He can't. The Doctor is watching, and he _can't_. Not after Tish. He won't.

He presses his lips shut, and feels his bones _snap_ as the Master brings his foot down across his half-curled hand. Jack convulses violently, breathing hitching on a scream, until he does it again and he can't keep it in, he can't, he yells and there's a third time and he wants to pass out, surely he'll pass out. He can't get away, his stupid, weak, broken body can't _move_.

'Beg me to stop,' the Master says.

Jack yells and sobs any number of unintelligible things. But not that.

The Master crouches down, right in front of his face. He looks up, to somewhere behind Jack's head, and his eyes grow dark. He takes hold of one of Jack's broken, stiffened fingers. 'Last chance, Jack.' He moans wordlessly. 'See?' the Master adds, head turned, 'I told you.'

And then the Master crushes it tightly and _twists_ , and oh, _God_ , he can see his bones, he wrenches and twists and Jack is screaming and screaming, until something wet snaps.

The next thing Jack sees is his severed finger, a foot in front of his face, ragged with blood and flesh. His vision swims.

'Oh, Jack,' the Master tuts, running bloodied fingers down his cheek. 'Jack, Jack, _Jack_.'

_Please, no more. No more._

'You forgot to keep your eyes open.'

 

Jack wakes with a gasp, and screams.

 

***

 

'Jack. Jack, can you hear me?' the Doctor urges, his voice a hushed whisper.

His chest heaves, gasping for air, but Jack finds his throat too thick with tears to breathe. For a few, dizzying moments, he doesn't know where he is - he's back on the Valiant, his leg _hurts_ and everything is clammy and shaking, and the Doctor—

The Doctor is leaning over him, his shirt hanging loosely off his body, his hands clasped over Jack's own. 'You're okay, I've got you.'

He's in his room. The TARDIS is humming through his head, a gentle wave of comfort. Jack forces his breathing deeper, slower, chest hitching on each intake. 'Bad dream,' he stammers, by way of explanation.

The Doctor's lips quirk, something bittersweet in his eye, and he opens his arms for an embrace. Jack launches himself upright and grips onto the Doctor like grim death. He buries himself in the crook of the Doctor's shoulder, breathing his way through the panic until it subsides.

The Doctor's arms gently fold around him. 'Careful, now. I figured as much. If you want to talk about it...'

'It's nothing,' Jack says. 'It's over.'

'Maybe,' the Doctor says, expectant.

Jack pulls away, but keeps squeezing the Doctor's arms. It grounds him. 'I just want to forget it.'

The Doctor's smile twists into something pained and fond at once. 'C'mon. You need some water, and a bite to eat.'

Water and food turns out to be hunting fruitlessly for a kitchen, while the Doctor rubs the wall and frowns, and Jack grits his teeth and gingerly attempts to walk. The Doctor hooks his arm around his shoulders and supports his weight, his thin frame easily pulling Jack upright. Jack's eyes keep pricking with tears, and he doesn't understand why.

'Might have to try it the old-fashioned way,' comments the Doctor, twisting his face to Jack's. He braces a door open with his foot, and gestures inside to the TARDIS gardens.

Jack's seen it before. The Doctor half-carries him among the orchard, a little patch of fruit trees and vines arranged in neat rows. Some of the plants are a deep charcoal-brown, their tawny leaves misted with a fine waxy coating of silvery-white, like spider's silk. The Doctor carefully sets him down, among a mound of stringy grass, and plucks a fruit off the silver tree.

'Try this,' the Doctor says, offering it to him.

Jack curls in on himself, huddling around his good leg. He turns the fruit over in his hands; a darkly-coloured grapefruit, with that same silver webbing circling around it like veins. He picks at the rind, finding it thin and crunchy-shelled, and it falls away to a fine silver pith and moist, orange flesh underneath. Jack takes a bite, and he doesn't know if it's dehydration or hunger or the fruit is simply delicious, but he moans with the pure, cool sweetness of it.

The Doctor sits opposite to him, taking deep bites from an apple. 'Like it?'

Jack nods, and takes another mouthful. The juice runs cool and fresh, and he pokes the rest of the fruit into his mouth before it drips over his shirt. 'Never had one of these before,' he manages, his cheeks bulging.

'Hang on a sec,' says the Doctor suddenly, and hops to his feet. 'I'll be back in a tick.'

Jack looks up to the ceiling, an artificial glow that radiates warmth like sunlight. The TARDIS's engines hum quietly, half-sound, half-feeling. It's warm in here, warm and humid, and he feels stiff and weak. Somewhere, the Master is lurking, and Jack feels panic grow behind his stomach, up into his throat, and he closes his eyes shut against it. It builds, and he feels as if some terrible, unfathomable disaster will happen if he doesn't _do_ something, if he doesn't _move_ , and he calls out— 'Doctor?'

'Here, Jack!' comes the reply, and a rustle of bushes, and the Doctor pops out in a tangle of limbs and energy and a metal jug, and Jack digs his fingers into the earth to steady himself.

The Doctor pours him a large cup of water, and it tastes wonderful. Nothing like—nothing like the stuff on the planet, but good. Jack gulps it down, and keeps going until he drains the tin cup dry. He's enthusiastically given second helpings.

'I could make it stop,' the Doctor says, without preamble. 'The nightmares. I can take the memories away, put them behind a closed door.'

Jack looks up from the empty pit of his cup. 'It's okay,' he says, simply.

'They are memories, aren't they?' the Doctor continues. 'The ones you're trying to get away from.'

He doesn't reply.

The Doctor clasps both of his hands in his own, around his cup. 'Let me help you,' he says, so earnestly.

The hands feel cold, cold and dead and fearsome, and Jack doesn't want him to see. He doesn't want him to see any of it - the shame, the fear. Does he know? Did he ever know, did he lock the memories away and run?

'Why haven't you done it? With the War,' Jack says.

The Doctor's hands go very still, and his gaze drops ever so slightly. 'It's my burden to bear.'

 _Let me lighten your load, Doctor._ 'Mine, too.'

Abruptly, in a shift of mood that reminds Jack disturbingly of the Master, the Doctor jumps to his feet. 'Some wonderful vegetables around here! I've even got some of the designer varieties from your time, Jack, curry fruit! Spaghetti beans!' he says brightly, spreading his arms. 'All we need is a fire, Lord President's your uncle, we could have a whole meal.'

Jack thinks back - in the Time Agency he'd either eaten like a prince or an inmate, and neither home grown. 'We had a few of those in my Dad's place. Bit of a craze. I always thought they tasted kinda bland.'

'Not hungry, then?' the Doctor urges, glancing at his various gardens.

'Tired,' Jack says.

 

***

 

Jack's life becomes entirely subsistent on those precious, quiet moments, delineated by the exhaustion and pain he endures between them. He's locked himself in and thrown away the key, this never-ending cycle where he clings to those reprieves like a drowning man to a log.

The Doctor is rubbing his shoulders, speaking wordless reassurances at his ear. His hands are slick with soap and glide perfectly over Jack's bare body, his muscles corded out through the fading tan of his skin. The rumble of water, dancing and flowing through an entire hall of Roman baths like rockpools, is loud enough that Jack can block out the cool chuckle of the Master's voice.

He's half-in, half-out of the water. It cools and drips off his bare skin and he shivers. The bath is recessed into the floor like a cellar, a set of wide steps at his left gently leading down into a shallow tub, just larger than a double bed. The Doctor stands beside an ornate marble fountain, rinsing a washcloth in its basin, still fully clothed. The Master has shucked off his jacket and rolled his trousers up to the knees, hand possessively clenched over Jack's hip.

He doesn't entirely know why. He does know that he's not supposed to ask - his ear still rings from being slapped across the face. Jack runs his tongue over his swollen lip self-consciously. But for now, they're not hurting him. Just the Doctor's clever hands, digging fingertips into his muscles and dragging a hot cloth over his face and chest, and the Master's nails finding every pressure point to keep him held in position.

The Doctor's hands bury themselves in his hair. He works soap over his scalp and down the back of his neck. Jack moans quietly, allowing himself to enjoy it as much as he dares. One of the Master's hands snakes down, reaching between his legs from behind and finding his cock. He cups its weight, running wet fingers over Jack's balls and the skin behind them. 'Enjoying this, Freak?'

The Doctor's hands seem to stiffen in his hair, and Jack clenches his eyes shut. 'Yes.'

'Manners,' the Master reminds him, and says, 'Go on, Doctor.'

Jack receives a yank to the hair behind his neck. It isn't enough to hurt him, not really, and somewhere between the Doctor's touch and the animalistic tug on his hair, it feels good. 'Yes, Master,' Jack replies, but his voice is soft, his eyes falling open to the Doctor's face where his resolve mixes with wide-eyed curiosity.

The hand on his cock becomes a firm grip, tugging insistently. He's barely begun to respond when the touch is withdrawn, and instead a single fingertip taps gently over his exposed hole. Obediently, Jack spreads his legs and relaxes. The water does nothing to ease the way, and if it's a little dry, it doesn't hurt. Neither does the second, stretching him pleasantly. The pressure inside him, the Doctor's focus on his face as his eyes grow heavy, the way his legs are spread and another hand snakes around to milk his cock like he's nothing, absolutely nothing—Jack's head drops down, and he gasps, and feels blood rush to his cock like lightning.

'Tie his wrists,' the Master instructs.

Jack's heart stays steady, calm. His erection makes it to half-mast and that's fine, that's more than fine, because the Doctor's fingers are so sure and gentle as they cinch the silk of his tie around his outstretched hands. He isn't supposed to be enjoying this, not really, or they wouldn't be here - surely. But the Master knows how to turn his body and mind against each other, has seen his worst, has seen him broken. Maybe the worst is to come. Maybe the worst of it is the part of him that doesn't care anymore, as long as the Doctor is touching him and he makes it through another hour, another day.

Fingers still inside him, the Master fucks him slowly, shallowly. The Doctor holds his wrists, and between them, he's trapped. 'What are you thinking, Jack?'

'Nothing,' Jack says, and amends it with, 'How it feels, Master.'

'Really?' the Master enquires. Jack can hear the raise of his eyebrow. 'Perhaps I should get inside that pretty little head of yours, too, and see for myself.'

Jack shakes his head, knees buckling. 'I swear, Master.'

'Perhaps the Doctor should have the pleasure. See all those lies you've stored up in there.' The fingers press in harder, slipping past a pair of knuckles, and Jack's legs start to shake.

'I'm—' Jack starts, gasps in a breath, 'I'm thinking about this. I like it, I shouldn't be liking it, I don't understand what I'm supposed to—to.'

The Master leans over him, the coarse damp of his suit on Jack's wet, cooling skin. 'So many things in your useless, limited human mind. Don't stop, now.'

'I don't know what's wrong with me,' Jack admits. What's another secret laid bare, another piece he swore he wouldn't lose to him?

He's left suddenly empty. 'So you're a liar, then.'

'Yes, Master,' Jack replies automatically.

The Doctor's grip on his wrists seems to slacken a little. 'And you're thinking too much,' he adds.

The Master hauls him aside with an arm around his hips, flipping him over with a reckless strength Jack feels is barely contained beneath his exterior. Bound arms pulled over his head, he's knocked backwards, landing in the water with a painful thump against the marble stairs.

'Let me,' says the Doctor, swinging himself over the edge, into the pool. Water soaks through his trousers to his knees, and he clambers over Jack's legs, kneeling on his thighs.

The Master steps delicately around to Jack's head, and hooks his bare heel against Jack's bonds, keeping his arms taut over his head. 'Apologise for lying.'

Stretched across the wide, flat stairs, Jack arches his neck to keep head and shoulders above the water. 'I'm sorry, Master.'

'Not good enough,' he snarls, and with a nod from the Doctor, the Master's other foot comes down on Jack's face, and forces him back and under.

Jack recovers from the shock of it easily enough, and waits to be let up. But he hasn't had a chance to fill his lungs, and too soon the urge to breathe rises, and as he struggles and thrashes he finds himself utterly overpowered between the two of them.

They let him out. Jack gasps, and before he forgets, cries, 'I'm sorry! I'm sorry I lied, Master!'

The foot underneath his chin presses, ever so slowly, and Jack has time to gulp down hysterical breaths before he's pushed under once more. This time, he saves his air, the seconds ticking away in his head. Surely, the Doctor won't let him drown. Surely.

He struggles earlier, hoping they'll take note and release him before he's truly desperate. They don't. Again, the burning builds in his chest, and his body jerks with frantic effort to reach the surface. He lashes out, water filling the back of his nose and he only needs a few inches, it's right _there_. He feels his wrists, his ankles hit something - soft, fleshy, then rock, and he tells himself hold on just one second, one second longer—

He gasps, and water begins to flood his mouth just as they pull him free. Jack coughs, hacking up frothy water and spit, and before he's even taken a full breath his head and neck are ruthlessly plunged under, pressed against the marble again. His chest hurts, _really_ hurts, and he doesn't think he even has seconds left. He's going to drown.

Blessedly, he feels his head break the water, and he twists his body as far to the side as he can and coughs. They let him. His breathing is ragged, wet, and as he coughs and coughs he wonders if he'll drown anyway, his lungs refusing to let him breathe between each fit.

He catches sight of the Doctor's face. His eyes are blown wide in that way when they first kissed, in the dark of the cavern, but his mouth is set as if he's ready to pull a trigger. Jack realises he's scared of the Doctor like this. But as quick as it arrives, the feeling passes, because he's been on the other side of that look.

He trusts him.

Another coughing fit ripples through him, this time bringing up pink froth that collects on the surface of the pool water. The Doctor's face shifts, and he climbs off his legs. Gratefully, Jack curls in on himself, muscles aching with every breath.

They speak to each other above him, a few words that Jack can't decipher. The tone of them resonates, as if vibrating through the water in his ears and nose.

'Not finished with you, yet,' the Doctor's voice drifts down. That casual, mild voice. Jack's seen him end lives in that voice.

He struggles to roll over, and makes it to hands and knees, chest still convulsing reflexively with his breaths. His limbs shake, balanced precariously on his bound wrists, but he forces them to keep him upright or he'll be punished, and he's going to need to save his strength.

The Master kicks his hands out from under him, and Jack barely manages to break his fall before his nose smashes into the stairs. 'Get up.'

He does, gasping, and clambers his way out of the water. He shivers in the air, fingers and toes icy with adrenaline. The Doctor takes his bound wrists, a quiet smile breaking the hardness of his face. He pulls him to his feet. Jack wills his knees to stop shaking. The Time Lords lead him to a generous shower, a recess roughly-hewn from a wall of smoky crystal. The milky opal of the stone, the reflected light dancing off the water to create glistening prisms - he barely has time to process them before the Doctor hoists Jack's arms up.

Bonds hooked over a broken pipe above his head, Jack's toes scramble for purchase on the slippery marble. He only needs a moment to compose himself. Instead, his body is blasted with icy water and he gasps at how shockingly, impossibly cold it is, his breath shrieking inwards and drawing more water into his nose and mouth.

Shaking, still coughing, Jack blinks ice-water out of his eyes and gapes at the Master. His fingers are poised over a tap half-way up the wall, and he points above Jack's head to the pipe and its slowing trickle of water.

And then he does it again.

Jack curls in on himself, twisting and flinging himself away from the freezing torrent, but it goes on and on. And at first it's easier, because he's used to the temperature, but soon the cold becomes painful and his whole body aches with it.

It stops. The air bites even colder than the water.

A few seconds of water, this time, and Jack doesn't know which is worse.

The cycle repeats, again and again, never predictable. It's exhausting him. His hands and feet are both painful and utterly numb, sensate to nothing but knives through every joint in his fingers and toes. He's shaking so uncontrollably his feet won't hold him.

The water shuts off once more, but he doesn't dare to think it's over. Not until the Doctor releases him with hands so hot they could be burning metal, carries him to a marble bench that feels like glorious, sun-warmed stone—and Jack shivers and gasps with relief.

'What do you think he needs, Doctor?' the Master says, and the hands withdraw from his body.

Jack opens his eyes, shivering violently. The Doctor looks down on him, eyes dark and deliberate. 'Something else. Something he can't get away from.'

The Master's face softens almost imperceptibly. And then he grabs the Doctor's damp jacket, hauling him close, and shoves his left hand beneath his waistband. The Doctor stiffens, flinching so violently that he almost breaks free of the Master's hold, and Jack aches to see the fear in his eyes - until, just as suddenly, it turns to wide-eyed yearning.

The Master tugs his fly apart, yanking his trousers down enough to get his fist around the Doctor's cock. He jerks it roughly, his eyes fixed on the Doctor's own, who shudders and grasps his shoulders and can't meet his gaze.

The Doctor clenches his teeth over a moan - a thready, vulnerable sound, barely allowed out - and Jack pushes himself upright on shaking hands, unsure if he should stop them, help them, what the rules are supposed to be—

'Go on,' the Master says, releasing him to steer both shoulders towards Jack. 'Give him what he can't deny.'

The Doctor looks between them both, that deer-in-the-headlights look that is becoming so familiar, and says 'But he's – it's not going to…'

' _Go on_.'

The Doctor bites his lip, and stumbles over to Jack, erection visible through the loose fabric of his trousers. Jack looks at him, bruised and exhausted and filled with doubt, but the Doctor's face is hard when their eyes meet.

He tenderly brushes the wet hair from Jack's eyes, and follows it with a backhand that knocks Jack flat.

'Doctor—' Jack gasps, but he doesn't know what to say, he honestly doesn't, and the Doctor grins devilishly above him like a perfect dream devolving into a nightmare.

'Stop it. He's right,' the Doctor says, determinedly. He presses a kiss to Jack's neck, knee pressing insistently to his groin.

Warm, blessedly warm hands trail over his body, finding his hands and pulling them to his sides. And with a quiet note of shame, the Doctor adds, 'I should have done this lifetimes ago.'

His brain can't parse it - a scene he could have plucked from his nightmares, inflicted on the Doctor and him for the Master's amusement - superimposed on the Doctor lovingly exploring his body, his wet hair and easy smirk, an expression so new but so _him_. His touch is soothing and arousing at once, but it feels like a lie somehow, a terrible lie.

But Jack catches something beneath the confidence and need - a hesitancy, an earnestness. An apology. It's quiet, hidden - from who, Jack can only guess. But it's there.

Jack leans up, and kisses him.

The Doctor freezes, as he always does, and Jack gently probes his wonderful soft mouth, introducing his lips around the Doctor's own. He responds gently, and then fervently, and Jack melts and forgets about the Master, or the numbness of his fingertips. The Doctor's mouth parts, his tongue gently touching Jack's lips as if asking permission, and Jack dives back into the kiss, as deeply as he dares. The Doctor pulls apart, but there's something magnetic about it, and with renewed honesty he kisses him again.

Jack doesn't care if he keeps going until they pass out - but he can feel the Doctor's hard cock, _God_ , against his thigh, and his own is catching up.

He can't seem to help glancing to the Master, watching them, even as he feels something shrivel up inside him at the image. But the Doctor simply wraps a hand around their cocks, and half-strokes, half-thrusts, awkward and clumsy and perfect. Jack wraps his hands around the Doctor's neck, his waist, pulling up his shirt because there isn't enough skin, and their mouths find each other once more.

The Doctor stops, but only for a moment to spit in his hand, and gently press his fingers to Jack's opening. Jack's heart nearly stops when he thinks of the Doctor inside him, but he has no time to think of whether he's afraid of it or he desperately needs it, and simply relaxes to let the fingertips inside him.

The Doctor seems to realise he's comfortable and wastes no more time, replacing his fingers with his cock and slowly pressing in. Jack shudders gloriously at the sensation of it, satisfying and perfectly full, and within moments the sting of penetration gives way to a heavy, impossible pleasure.

The Doctor's hand wraps around his cock, Jack's muscles involuntarily clenching, and the moan he makes is filthy and so incredibly gorgeous. Jack squeezes his eyes tight, and lets himself be here, with the Doctor deep inside him, stroking him off.

Jack grinds his hips down on the Doctor's cock, and that shuts up the voice that reminds him he never wanted it like this.

'Jack—' the Doctor gasps, and, 'I'm so sorry,' and he begins to move and says other things, too, half-whispered declarations and praise Jack can't make out.

He opens his eyes to see his face, eyes intense with pleasure and admiration, and Jack flutters his muscles just to see the Doctor bite his lip and moan. Jack focusses so intently on that face, on pulling it closer, driving his hips up to meet each of the Doctor's motions, that he barely notices when a black shape comes into his vision. A pair of knees manoeuvre around either side of his head, and Jack leans back, gazing up at the Master. And then the Doctor does something wonderful with his hand, and his eyes fall shut with a groan.

The strokes come faster, capturing Jack entirely with pleasure, frustratingly and deliciously out of time with the thrusts inside him. The Master's length is prodding insistently at his lips, and Jack opens obligingly, swallowing down around it. He smells sex, wiry hair brushing his nose, and imagines what the Doctor's scent must be, the animal musk of it shot through with warmth and the ozone of the Vortex. A satisfied hum drifts down from above him, interrupted by the Doctor's gasps as he drives himself in, unrestrained now. Jack hollows his cheeks and works the cock in his throat, even as his eyes begin to water and the Master, too, starts to move.

For a few moments he is nothing but need and fullness. The greediness for more overwhelms any conscious thought and he arches his back wantonly towards the Doctor. The angle changes; deeper, driving relentlessly against his insides, and he can't help moan. It tightens his throat, and the Master shoves himself deeper, and for a second he gags but the pleasure inside him drives every muscle slack again.

Abruptly, the Doctor's hand stops over his cock, and Jack whimpers with the ache of unfulfilled arousal. The pressure in his throat withdraws, and Jack sees the Master lean forwards and grab a handful of the Doctor's hair, tilting his chin to the ceiling.

'Ah—,' the Doctor whines, bracing himself against the marble. 'Please, I'm going to…'

The Master sinks his teeth into the hollow of the Doctor's neck, and at once the Doctor yelps, his hips stuttering and pressed against Jack's thighs, and then he throws his weight behind one deep, frantic thrust. His hand claws at the Master, jaw tightening even further, and with an expression of both agony and exquisite relief, he comes with a strangled wail.

A shaking hand falls around Jack's cock once more, and resumes stroking - fast and rough, which is perfect, more than perfect - and then his mouth is filled again, and he can feel come leaking out of him and it's the Doctor's, exhausted and gleeful, the Master's nimble fingers toying with his nipple - and — and

He shrieks around the Master's cock as his orgasm courses through him like lightning, thundering through his entire body. It goes on, and on, for what seems like it must be minutes, and leaves him utterly drained.

One-by-one, like lights on a flight deck, his senses come back and remind him how cold and sore he is.

The Master is truly fucking his face, now, deep and violent thrusts that Jack barely has the sense to keep focussed through. Tears seem to go up his nose, stick behind his eyes - and then one quiet grunt, and cool fluid hits the back of his throat.

The Doctor holds a hand to his neck, where a deep blue is spreading beneath his skin. He hisses, and the Master takes the back of his head, pulling their faces so close their lips almost touch. The Master, damp but satisfied, looks at him for a long moment, and releases him with a pleased nod.

For some reason, Jack only wants to lie there alone, catch his breath in the afterglow and rest his weary body. They help him anyway.


	14. IV: Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's my own design._   
>  _It's my own remorse._   
>  _Help me to decide,_   
>  _Help me make the most._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finally, I've become one of those people I swore I'd never be: the kind that takes...literally a year to update their fic.
> 
> Did it really take a year to write this? No, but it did take a year to map out the last bit of this story, relocate my inspiration, and learn to write for myself again. I also had to go and, y'know, take some time to research all the nasty bits. First-hand. I naturally strive for realism here, with three near-immortal characters. It was good fun and I got terribly distracted. (Yeah, honestly, there's no real excuse for not finishing this earlier.)
> 
> On the bright side - there are twelve thousand words to enjoy! Featuring yet another juicy layer of thoroughly-messed-up. There are 2-3 more chapters left, at most. And on the really, beautifully bright side: thank you to the people who commented, who egged me on, who made me not give up on this when I definitely could have. You all know who you are, and you are the reason I got my act together and finished this off.
> 
> On the down side - I was so eager to get this published I haven't actually proofread/edited the last thousand words. Please be forgiving if you notice they change significantly in the next 24 hours, haha.
> 
> Anyway. Go forth and enjoy awful, awful things happening to your faves.

Jack has a lot of time to himself. At the beginning, he hardly notices it pass. His body is exhausted, a weariness that goes beyond the physical. It demands sleep. He hasn’t slept so much since he was mortal.

His leg is still healing and it aches the few times he’s tried to walk. The wound has shrunk to a thick scab, beneath it the stony throb of torn muscles.

He stops sleeping when the nightmares start again. Time passes very slowly after that.

Jack spends it worrying. His mind works in circles, perseverates. Mostly, it focusses on the Doctor – the Doctor, who is bright, enthusiastic. The Doctor shows him how the TARDIS’s instruments interface with the main computer, how to regrow her circuits and repair them in the interim. He drags them both into trouble as often as possible, and shows off by conniving his way out of it. He gets along with the Master in a way that reminds Jack vividly of his rivals and on–and–off lovers at the Time Agency.

Jack hasn’t seen the Doctor like this since he wore a different face and fell in love with a human.

He thought it would be easier: seeing him happy. It’s worse. He knows how fragile that happiness is, the responsibility he bears to protect it. He struggles underneath its weight like Atlas.

Perhaps he might be happy, too, because now he has the Doctor. Or, he thinks, it might be hatred; of what he’s done to keep him, of who it’s made him. He doesn’t know which is worse.

He doesn’t think of Ianto.

 

***

 

The Doctor’s eyes are shining, his face young. He hooks his fingers under a panel and levers it out to expose the inner workings of the TARDIS console. ‘Now, Jack, I’m sure they taught you about interstitial field generators at the Time Agency.’

Beneath the instruments, the TARDIS’s circuits run in tangles of wire. Switchboxes feed in external inputs, and synapse onto organic circuitboards like roots frozen in amber. For a moment, Jack loses himself.

‘Not really applicable here,’ the Doctor replies, tugging his glasses open with his mouth and anchoring them on his face with one hand. ‘The TARDIS has one, as a backup system, but I haven’t used it in oh, centuries. She navigates across individual timelines instead, far more precise.’

‘I’m sure you’ve figured that out, what with setting courses instead of coordinates. Did they ever teach you nth–dimensional vectors?’

Jack’s replies sound blank, both times.

The Doctor grins. ‘Well, I failed both of them, so go on. Take a look.’

The Doctor drags his finger leftwards to a ribbon of cable instead. Jack sees it’s attached to a graduated lever on the other side, and something clicks through the treacle in his mind. He speaks, his voice hoarse, ‘It’s not set up for continuous input, is it? Each stop has its own wire.’

‘Yep,’ says the Doctor. ‘Newer models have it standard, but who really needs point–oh–two degrees variation.’ He glances fondly at the time rotor. ‘She suits me just fine.’

For a moment, Jack threatens to relax , to let himself fully engage. And then the Master’s voice floats through, and his mind shuts down once more. ‘Lucky, since there’s not another TARDIS left in the universe, that I’m aware of,’ he says, inserting himself onto the jump seat. ‘Ooh, lesson time. Go on, Jack. Tell us what you’ve learnt.’

Jack isn’t sure when he stopped calling him Freak.

‘This controls the scanning velocity, I think,’ Jack says. His brain is on automatic. He watches himself ask a question as if dreaming.

‘Ah,’ adds the Doctor, ‘You can actually toggle that, here. See how it feeds into the navigational circuits?’

‘Yes,’ says the Master, ‘But trying to browse spacetime corridors as if – what have you done here, exactly – is that a radio tuner? Do you want to get yourself killed?’

The Doctor looks affronted. ‘Well, it’s not like I have someone else to do the navigation while I do the flying. I’ve only got so many limbs.’

 

***

 

The Master finds him in the observatory, where Jack sits and watches a field of asteroids orbit past. Plumes of gas flow amongst them, forming eddies that kick up flickering clouds of mineral dust. He strides across Jack’s view. His arms are crossed, his face twisted into a dark scowl.

He’s in a foul mood. ‘How do you stand it? Wasting your little life in this useless, decrepit timeship, humouring every wild idea he comes up with! Interfering to ease his own conscience,’ the Master spits, ‘fiddling with the lesser races, as if he doesn’t lord himself over them.’

Jack’s voice is flat and bitter. ‘How comes you stand it, then?’

Before he registers the movement, a blow snaps his head across his shoulders. Half of his world fizzles out into blinding static. When it comes back, he’s sprawled across the floor, the Master’s foot poised over his face. ‘Get up.  _Now._ ‘

Jack does.

‘I’m going to kill you,’ the Master states drily, ‘Feel the universe rewrite itself around you,  _fuck_  you, make Time bend around my prick. Can you imagine what that feels like?’

‘No,’ Jack says. His heart begins an old, futile clatter against his chest.

‘Oh, I can,’ the Master sighs, ‘Once, Jack, I erased a third of the universe. When you die? You feel almost  _exactly_ like that.’

Jack closes his eyes. His breath shudders in his chest, his nails biting into his palms. ‘Then what are you waiting for?’

He braces himself. He can almost feel the energy ready to erupt – until the Master opens his mouth, and his mood unexpectedly reverses course. ‘You know,’ he says, and hooks an arm around Jack’s shoulders instead. ‘We don’t  _have_  to involve the Doctor in these nasty little games of ours.’ He pinches Jack’s swollen cheek. ‘Not that we’d need to hide it, of course. But isn’t it easier to kill you without him complaining?’

Jack is probably supposed to say something.

The Master’s eyebrows furrow again, and he digs his fingers into Jack’s face like talons. ‘Oh, no, no  _no_. I asked you a question, and you’re going to answer.’

Jack shakes his head free of the grip. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he demands, finding anger where he expected clarity. ‘You want my  _permission_  to leave him out of it?’

The Master stalks around, standing behind Jack and fixing his hands on his shoulders. He leans in close, his breath cool against Jack’s neck. ‘No, Jack.’

Before them, the dust catches specks of light from far–flung stars, glinting amongst the rocks. It’s silent, save for the TARDIS’s gentle hum. It drones beneath conscious hearing, like psychic tinnitus.

‘I want to know; if I gave you the choice, would you  _choose_  to make the Doctor hurt you,’ he whispers, his voice smooth and seductive.

Jack flinches at the rush of air across the back of his neck. The Master grips him tighter, pressing down on his shoulders as if to wedge him against the floor.

It’s all Jack says: ‘I can’t.’ He can hardly _think –_ he barely understands what’s being asked of him, and that small effort is exhausting enough. It’s impossible with the Master behind him, breathing spiders down Jack’s neck, crawling around under his skin like poison. The nightmares are never far away. The fear.

He’d spent months trying to talk himself out of those memories. He’d accepted them, he’d grit his teeth and faced them down. Now, he doesn’t know anymore.

It was easier when it was just torture. He’d had something to hold on for. People who needed him.

 

***

 

They never make it outside the doors. Coordinating the landing is difficult, and the Doctor barely pulls off an emergency stop. They land in an asteroid belt thick with hot, particulate gases: massive showers of rock pummel the TARDIS, and the external shielding is near failure. He tinkers with the atmospheric generators, trying to alter the parameters to something that can buffer the blows.

The Master laughs himself silly.

‘Oh, for—’ the Doctor hisses, and slams a dial until the needle clicks past some stop it was clearly never intended to pass. ‘I can’t get the airlock to a hundred percent.’

‘Rassilon, this is too much,’ the Master laughs, spiralling into another fit of giggles. ‘The airlock doesn’t airlock!’

Jack briefly meets the Master’s eyes. There’s no mirth in them. The Master leans over, and the Doctor simply doubles down his efforts in fiddling with the console. Tendons pop out across his knuckles, his eyebrows sharply furrowed.

And the Master’s hand, resting on the small of the Doctor’s back beneath his jacket, grabs his shirt and yanks it out of his trousers.

‘Cut it out,’ the Doctor mutters, frustrated. ‘I need you—’

The Master grins wickedly and shoves his hand down the back of the Doctor’s pants. ‘Oh, do you?’

‘Master,’ the Doctor snaps, ‘This isn’t—’ and the Master whirls him around to smother the Doctor’s mouth with his own. Pressed against the console, the Master’s arm trapped behind him, the Doctor lifts a hand to push him away – which the Master catches, pinning his wrist, plunging deeper into the Doctor’s mouth.

They break apart. The Doctor’s lips are slack and swollen. Wetness shines at the corners of his mouth, across his lower lip. The Master wipes his face with the back of his cuff. He glances at Jack, ever so briefly. It’s an expression Jack knows by heart.

The Master spins the Doctor back around, facing him towards the console. ‘Go on, then. Get to work.’

_Be good, and no–one gets hurt._

The Doctor gives him a sceptical look. ‘I can’t,’ he protests, eyeing the Master’s arm and hand, still outlined beneath the fabric of the Doctor’s trousers.

He leans forward, breathing words against the Doctor’s neck. His lips brush against the bite–mark, now yellowed and ruddy.

‘Don’t you think we should—’ the Doctor tries, once more, looking at Jack.

‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ says Jack. He realises his voice sounds toneless, and tries again. Some cheek, a smirk. ‘Turnabout’s fair play, isn’t it?’ The Master’s eyes are closed, as if to listen better. He smiles.

The Doctor gets to work.

‘If there’s a leak, why not use positive pressure from our side?’ the Master suggests, and dips his hand lower.

Jack stays frozen to the spot.

‘Mmm, I don’t know,’ the Doctor mutters, nudging his glasses up his nose. ‘The pressure differential on dematerialisation is unpredictable, I don’t have those equations.’ Suddenly, his back goes stiff, hands gripping the console. Jack can see fingers pressed between his legs.

‘Throw twenty percent error in,’ the Master says. He worms his hand deeper. ‘That’s enough.’  His spare hand reaches around to undo the Doctor’s fly.

‘Even still, that’s…well, if you simplify it, but we’re really just,’ the Doctor breaks off into a gasp, the Master cupping him from the front, ‘—approximating.’

‘It’s only a little leak,’ says the Master, and pushes a finger inside him.

The Doctor’s gasp is of pain, not pleasure, and he lurches away into the Master’s hand against his cock. ‘Ow, Master, ow!’

‘Shush,’ grins the Master, rubbing the heel of his palm against the Doctor’s cock. ‘Let me in.’

The Doctor’s knees are shaking, his face slowly going slack. ‘I can’t, I’m—’

 

***

 

‘Well,’ says the Master, abruptly changing tactics. He hooks an elbow around Jack’s neck. ‘Then it’s up to me, hmm? And I say I want to kill you.’

Jack finds himself pinned against the observatory’s palatial window, a knee forcing his legs apart, bent over in a headlock. He struggles weakly; to keep his balance, to keep his nose away from the window where the Master rams his head against it, over and over. His swollen jaw sends angry bolts of pain down his neck with every impact.

Dazed, his ears ringing, Jack instinctively lashes out and lands a kick into something bony. The Master releases his neck, and as Jack gasps in a lungful of air, a fist tugs his hair and slams him face–first into the window. His sight sparks into grey, he tastes metal. He’s yelling. Someone is yanking down his trousers.

Jack chokes for breath. He claws for the window and braces himself against it, arm shaking. A hand clamps across his mouth, fingers pinching his nose—something goes  _crunch_ , gives, and there is so much pain – he can’t breathe –

Air coats his throat like fire. He sucks in breaths, his vision coming back in flickers, and his skin meets ice cold metal. It’s sharp, it’s cutting him in a line of stinging sweat, and he can’t. He just—can’t—

 

***

 

He doesn’t want to see this. He’d thought it would be better—

‘That’s it,’ croons the Master, ‘Now, when to activate the generators?’ He shoves his finger in to the knuckle. The Doctor’s body tightens, until the Master resumes his stroke, palming the Doctor through his pants, making him hunch over and gasp for breath.

He’s seen the Doctor taken by force, with cameras and friends held like guns to his head, he watched the Doctor lie there and accept it – he’s felt it, the Doctor drawn tight as a bow with pleasure, felt as he came buried inside him.

This shouldn’t bother him anymore.

‘Please,’ says the Doctor, ‘Please, come on, I’m here,’ and the Master presses his forehead into the Doctor’s hair, and his pupils blow wide, wider than Jack thought possible. The Master lets a groan of pleasure escape, and the Doctor’s eyes almost roll into his head in response. An impossible, beautiful smile lights up his face – and it flows across their bodies, until Master is smiling, too.

The Doctor, like this – no pain, no threats, no violence. Just the two of them, in perfect synchronicity; their breathing, each noise of pleasure in eerie unison, each movement and gasp. The Doctor’s hands flitter across the controls, the Master occasionally stops touching him to set a dial here, flick a switch there. They work as one.

It’s intimate. It’s worse than violence. There’s motion, the sound of quickened, heavy breathing.

 

***

 

‘Stop,’ Jack croaks, slumping half to the ground. ‘I’m—stop,  _stop_.’

Hands leave his body, letting him fall. The marble is so cold against his bare skin. His clothes are tangled, his hip smarts; his nose, his face, his throat. He hears the pounding of his heart, the ringing in his ears, the rush of breath.

He breathes for a while, and his senses fade back in.

The Master crouches down beside him. ‘Are you finished?’ Something is hidden in his palm. ‘I’m just getting started with you, Jack.’

‘I want the Doctor,’ Jack says into the floor.

‘What?’ The Master turns Jack’s face up towards him. The cold stings his cheek.

‘You asked me,’ Jack snaps, ‘That’s my answer.’

He needs him. He needs someone – something – because he can’t bear much more. Worse, part of him wants it, wants  _him_. Is there any point in caring how?

The Master laughs, as if hearing Jack’s thoughts. ‘You’d do that to him? Do you want him to screw you  _that_  badly? Shall I make him do it, Jack, make it good for him—he gets so  _guilty_  about you. It’s so  _easy_.’

‘Shut up,’ says Jack. ‘I don’t care what you say, all you do is lie,’ he adds angrily, pushing himself up on an elbow, ‘I want the Doctor here, now.’

The Master takes his chin between a finger and thumb. Jack fights it, jerking his head away, but the Master holds his other palm against Jack’s forehead and forcibly tilts his gaze upwards.

Jack makes himself meet those eyes. The pupils are constricted, pinpricks lost in a haze of dirty amber. 

‘I’ve never told you a lie, Jack,’ the Master says, lips curled towards one corner. He sneers at him with a predator’s smile. ‘Not a single one. Are you calling me a liar?’

‘You lie to  _him_ ,’ Jack grits out. He won’t look away.

The Master laughs, releasing him. ‘And he lies to everyone.’

He gingerly sits up. Something smarts at the touch of the floor, the rough weave of his clothes.

‘Now, stay there,’ the Master says. He seems amused, his lips quirking towards a smile. ‘Oh, and Jack?’

‘Yes, Master?’ Jack replies automatically.

‘Strip. The shoes can stay, everything else, off.’

 

***

 

The Doctor catches sight of him, still and quiet in front of the window. His naked skin glows like marble in the starlight. Concern furrows its way across the Doctor’s brows, a brief mask of hesitation that Jack only glimpses for a second. It quickly moves out of sight as the Doctor crouches, laying a cloth bag, a long bar on the floor.

Their eyes meet, and the emotion bleeds off the Doctor’s face until all that’s left is steely determination. It sets Jack’s heart pounding. His heart thumps, blood ricocheting around his veins like shockwaves, like sparks. His body begins to ache for the Doctor – his touch, the gentle embrace when they’re done. He aches, too, at the coldness drawing across the Doctor’s face. Dimly lit by long–dead stars, the quiet fury of the Oncoming Storm lurks just beneath the surface. That purpose, concentrated on his naked body—it hits him like a punch to the groin.

It almost scares him. But Jack trusts him with his life.

The Doctor stands in front of Jack, so close his breath is tactile, too close for Jack to look anywhere else unless he closes his eyes. He smooths his long fingers down Jack’s shoulders, along his arms. His hands meet at Jack’s wrists, and he tugs them together. ‘Jack. Do you want this?’

He can’t help it. Barely touched, and still it’s too intense; his voice, low and quiet, his smell. His cock fills against his thigh. ‘Yes,’ Jack murmurs. ‘Yes,’ and leans into him, the Doctor effortlessly taking his weight through that single point of contact.

‘We’re going to hurt you,’ the Doctor states, squeezing his wrists. ‘It isn’t going to be easy. But if you stay with me, I’ll help you through it.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Jack mumbles, dropping his chin to the floor at last. He can’t bear the Doctor’s gaze.

‘Do you trust me?’

Jack takes a sharp, quick breath. ‘Yes, Sir.’

The Doctor looks equally distant and fond. He smiles dispassionately. ‘Right.’ He nudges the bar towards Jack’s feet, wide cuffs bolted to either end. ‘Put these on, face the window.’

Jack wastes no time. He crouches to take the spreader bar and fasten its buckles. The cuffs sit comfortably, nestled over his boots. From the corner of his eye, the Doctor and the Master are talking, the contents of the bag passed between them. When the cuffs are secured, Jack unsteadily pushes to his feet, and bares his back to the Time Lords.

He isn’t left waiting. The Doctor circles around him, and positions himself in the gap between Jack and the window, his back pressed up against the glass. Slowly, not removing his eyes from Jack’s body, he loosens his tie and pulls it free from his collar. He reaches for Jack’s hands wordlessly.

Jack offers up his wrists, and lets the Doctor bind them to a hand–rail at his waist. The position leaves him half–bent over, legs spread. Jack hangs his head, and the Doctor runs a hand over his hair fondly. ‘That’s it, Jack.’

Jack senses the Master behind him, and in a flash of dark material, something thick and leathery is tucked under his chin and drawn back. The rush of air catches in Jack’s throat and sounds somewhat like a grunt, echoing as the Master pulls his head back with a free hand in his hair.

The Doctor watches; carefully, fingers curled in Jack’s own.

Just as Jack’s lungs start to burn, the pressure is relieved and Jack catches sight of a slick, coiled bullwhip before the Master retreats. He gasps a breath, looks at the Doctor, and shakes his head in part terror, part refusal – but the Doctor only squeezes his hands sharply.

And then it begins. Softly, at first; high–pitched whistles that land on him like stinging flicks. Jack wants to relax, to let the sensations wash over him and set him adrift. Instead, his entire body tenses, waiting for the blow he knows is coming. This isn’t his first time. Time stops, a needle skittering across a record, until—

It comes. It sounds like a firecracker, like an explosion; the noise lands just beside his ear. Jack flinches so violently he almost throws a shoulder out, a tremor running across his entire body.

‘Slow down,’ comes the Doctor’s voice. ‘Deep breaths, now. In and out.’

Jack obeys, gulping a mouthful of air, and then holding his breath – he can hear his heart in his ears – and he lets it go. The gentle, stinging strokes rain across his shoulders again.

‘In and out,’ the Doctor reminds him.

The Doctor’s eyes leave his and find a point behind Jack’s shoulder. He nods, just the slightest movement of his head – and Jack hears deafening noise. A line of spitting, roaring fire flares up across his back. He hisses, twists away from it, his whole body recoiling. Another crack, and Jack yelps and ducks to avoid the blows. Sweat springs up across his brow.

The Doctor looks at him again, crouching to Jack’s eye–level. He takes Jack’s bound hands, his cold fingers squeezing Jack’s clammy, frigid ones. ‘Hold on to me.’

Jack bites his lip, clinging on to the Doctor for grim life. ‘Please, just let me…give me time, just a minute,’ he chokes out.

‘I said it wouldn’t be easy,’ the Doctor says, not a trace of sympathy on his face. Instead, Jack identifies caution, concentration, pride – and it reignites the desire in him. Jack squares his shoulders, and before the pain of the last two strokes has faded, a third slashes him between the shoulders. The pain is so intense, it seems to lance through his throat, choking him, and he hears a fourth and he screams before he feels it, and a fifth. His knees buckle.

He sags, his body trembling, unwanted tears pricking at his eyes. The pain seems to get worse, not better. There is so much sweat, he can’t tell if the trickle of heat down his back is blood.

Six, and Jack is caught unprepared; he fights the next three every step of the way, roaring, tugging at his bound wrists, angling his body to deflect each blow – the ninth catches him around the chest, just below the nipple, and Jack’s vision goes white – white with the pain, white where the welt springs up, white beneath his skin, where the whip has parted it – and then blood beads up, and the open flesh stings anew.

The Doctor takes his gaze and holds it. ‘Jack. Breathe. Squeeze my hands.’

It takes Jack longer, this time, to realise his breathing is too fast, too hysterical. He fights for control of his body. He plants his feet, takes deep, shaking lungfuls of air. He squeezes the Doctor’s hands.

‘I know you can do this,’ the Doctor murmurs. ‘Stay with me.’

Jack nods, furiously, anchored by those words. He forces his breathing to slow, each tremble of his body shuddering audibly, in time with the battering of his single, human heart. He plants his feet into the floor.

Pain splatters its way across his back like hail, and Jack counts his breaths. He clings to the Doctor. The Doctor squeezes back just as hard, Jack’s hands so cold from fear, his skin feels almost warm. The crack of the whip splits the air between his ears – and for a horrid moment, the pain roars so overwhelmingly that Jack thinks he’ll vomit, he’ll faint, his knees buckle perilously.

He doesn’t. The roar mutes itself out to a rumble, the inferno recedes to a thrumming warmth sizzling over his skin. Another strike falls and ignites him like tinder, but Jack rides it through.

Somebody has flipped a switch in his head, he realises, because after that things get blurry.

 _Crack_ , he soaks it in and time skips,  _crack, crack_. He’s forgotten to breathe. He gasps,  _crack_ , his hands are so wet with perspiration his grip slips from the Doctor’s and onto the bar,  _crack_. Jack moans, his nerves overflowing with sensation, his body soaring above pain and into something endorphin–drenched and dangerous.

The blows stop. Jack catches his breath, lost to hysterical gasps, and steadies himself. His knees are shaking, vibrating. He feels fine, mighty fine.

‘Jack,’ murmurs the Doctor, grabbing his right hand. ‘Are you with us?’

He is too far away from the words to ever reply. Instead, Jack squeezes, and hopes the Doctor understands, hopes that he knows this is the most alive he feels anymore, that he’s invincible here, that he can’t bear to come down.

The leather tongue traces lower, down the curve of his back, over the swell of his ass. Jack lets out a soft, vulnerable noise, and presents himself; a couple of gentle flicks land on him, and then  _crack._  Before the pain even registers, Jack’s body flings itself away, a scream tearing from him – it feels worse, it’s bad again, his skin parts like butter. He takes the Doctor’s hand and viciously grabs, digging his nails in as  _one, two, three–four,_  he clenches as if by hurting the Doctor, he can force him to endure this, too,  _five_ ,  _six_ , Jack cannot stay in position, and—

‘Wait,’ says the Doctor. He tugs Jack closer, tipping Jack’s head up to meet his eyes. ‘Give it to me.’

For a moment, Jack sees softness in those dark, brown eyes. And then it’s gone, and they are merciless, and the thought brings a sob above the surface. Tears rise, swell, track down his left cheek, and Jack trembles and hyperventilates and forgets how to control himself.

The Doctor lets go of him, and thrusts the whip under Jack’s chin. ‘Look at it,’ he says. Finding Jack unable to respond, he pulls him by the hair until it’s in his line of sight.

It’s old, worn leather, a rich black–brown. Softened from use, it coils easily in the Doctor’s hand, plaited from a thick handle down to a fine, stringy tip. The sight terrifies him.

‘Look at it,’ repeats the Doctor, and Jack flinches in anticipation of a blow that never comes. He gingerly opens his eyes, and the Doctor rubs the warm leather over his face. It smells rich, it smells like…

Soft, cool lips press against his feverish cheek. The Doctor’s lips. ‘Tell me how many more you want. Then we’ll stop.’

Jack pauses, desperately wishing for his conscious mind to return from wherever it’s hidden itself. The question processes sluggishly, burbling through whatever’s left of him. He tries to think of what will please them. He thinks of making the Doctor proud.

‘Ten,’ Jack rasps. ‘Please, Sir. Master.’

‘Twenty, then,’ comes the reply, behind him.

Jack closes his eyes, lets himself sink back into that infinite place. He lets everything go, and time stutters, and the Doctor holds him.

 

***

 

His back feels like it’s been beaten with a wasp’s nest – and he isn’t dead.

The sheets are soft, a warm cocoon around his heavy body. He lays curled against the Doctor’s front. His injured leg still aches from the strain of the night, and that’s all. No bones broken, no injuries he’d rather die than heal from. He almost laughs – oh, that smarts – but it’s  _good_.

Once, the Master had been plastered against the Doctor’s back, head propped up with one hand to watch the two of them; his creation. But Jack was quiet, the Doctor at ease, and as he had swum in and out of rest, Jack realised the Master was gone.

He drifts just above sleep. The Doctor’s arm is wrapped around him, nestled snugly under his ribs. Jack reaches out, even as his body winces at the smallest movement, and finds his hand.

‘Are you okay?’ asks the Doctor, quiet and calm. His voice is so smooth, Jack doubts he’s slept at all.

‘Yeah,’ he replies. The words surprise him. They’re true.

He remembers the tears coming, standing at the edge of the void, the pain trying to drag him head–first into horror. And the Doctor guiding him, staying the Master’s hand, until Jack had found his footing once more.

It had felt safe.

‘Doctor?’ Jack begins. He has to ask it, now, while his thoughts still run dozy and uninhibited, while he’s near and they share this warm intimacy.

The body shifts against him, and he feels the puff of air at his cheek. ‘What is it, Jack?’

‘What about you?’ Jack admits. ‘You don’t like it. Not like he does.’

The Doctor stays quiet.

‘Please,’ Jack says, ‘I need to know. Just say, and you’ll never have to see this. Never. Don’t let me screw this up, don’t,’ his voice gives in, and the rest of the sentence is lost.

‘Jack,’ the Doctor murmurs, squeezing his hand. ‘I told you. If this is what you need, I’m here.’

Jack rubs his eyes violently, to stop anything from spilling out. ‘Why? Why, now?’

The Doctor hesitates. ‘I want you to stay,’ he says. The words hang there, dying out in the quiet. ‘And,’ he adds, like by opening his mouth, it might drag the rest of them out, ‘I owe you.’

 _What for?_  Jack can’t bear to ask. He’d left him for dead, abandoned him twice, left him to the Master’s mercies, and not once had he felt Jack was owed anything in return. Not even an apology.

A braver man might have turned the conversation around. Convinced the Doctor to butt out. Let the Doctor live the life he’d wanted from the second that old man opened his watch, shielded from all the violence of such a choice.

But Jack is too tired, too afraid of any more loss to keep being that man. ‘Okay,’ is all he says.

He shuts down. Sleep is still in arm’s reach, and he wants to be reclaimed. He wants to run away from the other thoughts, the ones he can’t admit.

At first, his body picks up where it left off. That coma–deep, full–body exhaustion, closer to unconsciousness than rest. There are no dreams, no thoughts. But the hours pass, sleep lightening with every cycle. His mind comes back from the oblivion. It thinks. It processes.

Like always, it remembers.

 

***

 

He hangs in limbo. He is dying, he is unable to die.

As his body fails, the room swells and twists before his eyes. The inky blackness swarms across the concrete like a thousand spiders, and they skitter into the space behind his eyes. There, they nest, crawling over his vision, rotting him from the inside–out. Strip by strip, his mind is torn from the carcass of his body. His heart beats and beats like it will burst out of his chest, he cannot get enough air, he gasps but each breath is searing, endless agony and never enough. Time plays at double–speed, shrill and shrieking, but every moment stretches to eternity.

Once, he thought he’d known what it meant to suffer. He deserved this. For being so fucking arrogant, for thinking he’d understood anything at all. Now, he’s being taught.

Sometimes the darkness clears. Those moments of lucidity are far worse. The air is fetid, sweet with decay and shit, his throat is raw from gasping for every breath he can’t take, the screams he’d wasted his time on before it hurt too much just to draw breath. He prays for the delirium, to be unaware of it. The swollen, corpse–bloat of his stomach, the mottled purple of his feet, his hands. Black sets in around his elbows, where the drips had stayed until his flesh began to die, and there’d been nowhere left but his neck to put them.

They don’t let him die.

They bring three fresh bags, every day. Three, three, he’d watch them ooze into his lifeless veins, he’d counted the hours and the days until time betrayed him, too, and everything fractured and slipped and slid together, and there wasn’t enough left of him to think, and it didn’t matter anymore how long. Nothing but pain held any meaning.

At some point, he’d stopped pissing. And that should have meant it was over, but who knew if it had been weeks or seconds or days, and Saxon – not even Time would stop him, he’d already torn open Time itself, he could make this torture never, ever end.

And then it would come again, as it always did. Choking, rippling nausea, and his broken body would wring itself uncontrollably to relieve it. His muscles clenching violently, the pain beyond any describable limit, he’d empty himself over and over onto the floor. At first, he’d puked up bile. More of it than he thought was physically possible. Now, it looks and tastes like shit.

The pain and the effort make the world go black again. But the darkness is never complete, so instead he is drowning, choking, his body so rigid with agony he must already be dead. Freezing cold and shaking uncontrollably and hot and clammy with sweat and filth, and he could still feel it, where he’d been torn open deep inside and he’d thought that was pain, until it festered inside him and they left him with nothing but the putrid sick and his organs shutting down as the infection raged.

He slumps in his chains and watches the world dissolve out. Ever–closer, never arriving, death taunts him from the edges. There is blessed nothing for quite a while. He flirts with death, the smoke in his fingers.

He is soon dragged back into anguish. His eyes fly open, and Saxon is there. Standing over him, glove held against nose and mouth. There is a bag, and Saxon’s other hand is squeezing it into his jugular. He barely breathes, his vision swims, his heart’s gone mental. The pain recedes, but he is stiff as a board.

There is so much agony he cannot cry. Brokenly, his breath hitches, too weak to sob, and he begs. With everything he is, he begs.

There is no Doctor here, no Ianto Jones, there is fucking  _nobody_  to save him but the Devil himself.

‘Please,’ he mouths, ‘please,’ because he cannot muster any words. ‘Let me die.’

Impassionate, Saxon pumps the bag again. His voice is everywhere, nowhere. ‘Afraid the antibiotics aren’t working anymore.’

A moan escapes what used to be Jack’s body, and he thinks this, this is as close to mercy as he gets.

‘Don’t worry,’ croons Saxon, ‘I’m not giving up on you that easily, Freak. Oh, no. Enough adrenaline, and I can keep you running for a while yet.’

Eyes fluttering, threatening to roll into his head, Jack looks at him. He begins to understand. He struggles harder, to speak, to plead. The only way out is through, but there is no way through this. There is nothing left in him.

Whatever there is, he uses now. ‘Please, p–please,’ he breathes. His whole body is aflame. He finds it in him to shake his head.

‘And then,’ Saxon adds, dialling the clamp on the drip, ‘We’ll do it again. It was fun, wasn’t it? My hand inside you. All that blood.’

Impossibly, the horror of that sinks in. Perhaps it’s the desperation. Perhaps it’s just the drugs, the fluids. But his mind sluggishly ticks back to life, and Jack tries anything – everything – to make this end. He has to. Death isn’t enough to save him. He draws breath. ‘Anything,’ he mouths. ‘I’ll do it. Anything.’

Saxon raises his eyebrows, and breaks into a high, childish giggle. It carries him away to laughing belly–deep, hunched over, hands braced on his knees. When he recovers, he presses tears from the corners of his eyes. ‘Oh, Freak, I do love you,’ he says, shaking his head. He can’t help laughing again. ‘What could you  _ever_  have to give me?’

Every final cell in his body, every inch of his soul  _screams_  for him to come up with something. There has to be something. Some leverage, some bargaining chip. He wants to give in, oh, he wants it so badly, but so long as the animal in him draws breath, it  _can’t_. Desperate to survive, its instincts compel him to escape. Even when his conscious mind knows it to be beyond all hope.

To think, that degree of cruelty had once been unfathomable.

A thought strikes. Jack doesn’t question it for a second. ‘Rose,’ he splutters. ‘Rose Tyler.’

The ringing in his ears, the rushing of blood, it all goes silent.

Saxon looks at him. He seems to sense it; the gravity, the importance of that name.

‘I,’ Jack tries to say, fighting agony, just a moment more. Just another word. He urges himself on, ‘I–I, I, she…’  _come on, just a second longer,_ ‘the Doctor.’

‘Really, now,’ murmurs Saxon. He seems to consider it. ‘Isn’t that interesting.’

Saxon pulls something out from his coat pocket. His laser screwdriver. Oh, God, please. Please let it be over. ‘Tell me why, and I’ll kill you. Tell me more when you wake up, and I won’t start over on you.’

At the end of it all, the tears come back. One last time, his face heats, tears streak through the filth and the dirt. He can’t believe it. There is no shame, no guilt. Loyalty, bravery, love – they don’t survive in this place. They can’t save him.

This can.

He summons every last vestige of strength, one final, last effort, to force out the words that will save him. ‘Ask…the Doctor. ‘Bout Rose.’

And then, at last. At long last, there is mercy.

 

 

He wakes like a car slamming into a wall. A heavy weight restrains him – a body. He lashes out. Panicking. Sheer, blind panic; it’s too dark to see, he doesn’t remember where he is—

He falls down, impacting gritty concrete – no, carpet. In that frozen moment, the pure shock of it, he registers that he’s crying with such force it feels like choking.

The Doctor appears before him. But after so many traps, he can’t let himself believe it. He is terrified, confused as arms wrap around him. Instinct wins out. Jack fights, driving an elbow into the body, kicking at its shins, but a fist is clenched around his heart and throat. It grows tighter, overwhelming his struggles until he just wants to breathe.

It forces him to stop fighting. And then, one–by–one, things begin to make sense. The Doctor is holding him, and won’t let go. He becomes aware of himself; paralysed on the floor, and quietens his wet, harsh breaths. The Doctor shifts against his back.

‘Jack, I’m here. It’s okay,’ the Doctor murmurs. He soothes an arm down Jack’s shoulders.

Jack clutches the Doctor’s hand fiercely, pulled close to his chest.

The Doctor squeezes back. ‘You’re safe. It’s okay.’

Tears, only half–checked, still threaten to overtake him. They burn his face, itching at his eyes and nose, and he bites his lip to keep quiet. The memories float back to him – he can’t bear it.

The Doctor lets him tremble, face hidden in his hands. He must think he’s still in the grips of them, those nightmares, the things he wishes he could forget.

Things had gotten so much worse, after that. For both of them.

‘I’m sorry,’ whispers Jack, ‘I’m sorry, I have to be alone.’

‘Jack,’ begins the Doctor. He pulls him tighter, rubs his thumb over the back of Jack’s hand. ‘Please, stay. I’m here.’

And oh, it makes it worse, not better. Barely holding his voice under control, Jack gingerly climbs to his feet. The pain of his ripped–up back makes the tears prick all the more fiercely. ‘I have to go,’ Jack insists, refusing to look at him, leaving before – before.

 

***

 

He sits on a piece of misshapen coral. A vast expanse of half–formed TARDIS stretches beyond him, like a room frozen in mid–construction. It’s very quiet, here.

In the absence of sound, he hears the shrill ringing of his ears, the beat of his heart as it throbs painfully against his skull. His face is thick, full, his breath echoing through his sinuses. But the hours have left him drained, with nothing left to cry, and that is – almost – peaceful.

His head hurts. And he knows that this is it, the best he could do. Abusing the Doctor’s trust to protect himself. When he’d first come aboard – months? Even years, ago? Long enough that Jack barely recognises the person from those memories. The one who thought he could save the Doctor.

Hell, if he was brave enough, strong enough. Less afraid. Maybe he would have stood a chance – maybe he’d even be able to save himself. The Doctor and the Master, all that power, all that dead and ageless history; how could he ever have hoped to be enough? For either of them?

Then in return, this is the best he gets. He’ll take that. He probably deserves it.

Jack closes his eyes and sowers himself to rest against the coral. It helps with his head. He keeps seeing the Year, the images renewed more vividly than ever. What had happened to the Doctor afterwards. Whenever he remembers it, there is always guilt, shame. He knows if the positions were reversed, the Doctor would never have betrayed him. But he isn’t sorry. Not for surviving. He won’t hold onto that shame – he just doesn’t know if he can forgive himself a second time.

Jack sucks in a deep breath, and looks out through the shade of his fingers. He’d rather the lighting hurt his eyes than what his mind conjures when they’re shut.

This room – this cavern – is enormous. Coral branches out from the walls, almost like stalactites. Peach–blue light gently diffuses off each surface. The kaleidoscope of colour is mesmerising, is intense against his raw nerves. The silence is unnerving.

Food and water eventually assert their need on him. The second is easy; Jack finds a pool amongst the cave–like chamber. Small trails of water bleed from the coral walls and collect in a rocky basin, forming a still, inky surface. He lifts his shirt, wincing where he finds it stuck to his raw wounds, and twists to see his reflection.

It isn’t bad, really. Open welts trail from the small of his back, to the base of his neck. They ooze clear fluid, but aren’t deep. They’d both used a fair amount of restraint. Jack knows how easy it would have been to lay his back open, leave him to die of infection or dehydration—

Jack pulls his shirt back on, and takes great draughts from his cupped hands. The taste is unusual, vegetal, but the water is cold and refreshing. He pauses to catch his breath, watching the ripples spread across the pool’s surface.

He decides food can wait.

***

Some days later, ravenous and utterly lost, Jack stumbles into the nearest kitchen and tears into a long–forgotten box of crackers. They’re gone in minutes, and Jack rifles through the cupboards – jam, cereal, some tinned meals.

When he looks up, he’s there. A spectre in the doorway, suit immaculate, and Jack’s body dumps adrenaline and makes him jump a foot in the air. A canned roast rolls across the floor.

The Master gives him a lazy smile. ‘Ah, the prodigal son returns. I was beginning to worry.’

He hates it. He hates the humiliation, the involuntary response when he sees that silhouette, or hears its awful voice. He hates that every time he thinks he’s over it, the fear bites him in the ass. His anger spills out into a growl. ‘What do you want?’

‘To check up on you,’ he says, his tone an unnerving imitation of Jack’s very own words. So long ago, now. The Master says it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

‘See, when people enjoy something, they don’t tend to disappear to have a cry. And if the Doctor thinks you aren’t enjoying this,’ the Master frowns, looking about the room, the scattered tins, ‘that raises some very difficult questions, Captain.’

Something bright leaps in his heart, a hope Jack had forgotten he could feel. He wonders, does he finally have him cornered?

As if reading his mind, the Master shoots a shrewd glare down the bridge of his nose. ‘Oh no, that’s entirely your problem, Handsome Jack. You can either keep things the way we left them, or come up with some lovely, difficult answers. We’ll see whether you can clean up the mess after.’

Jack doesn’t bother, anymore. What point is there in fighting that battle; keeping his expression blank, scoring points in a game where the rules change at whim? He rests his head in his hands. ‘I don’t have any answers.’

‘No,’ agrees the Master. ‘You don’t.’

‘So that’s it, then,’ Jack says irritably. ‘I keep you happy, you keep the Doctor happy.’

‘Is it? Haven’t you got what you want, too?’ the Master points out. He crosses his arms, managing to still look down at Jack, despite lacking a foot in height.

Jack hisses at him, ‘You have no idea what I want.’

And that’s it, enough to break the tension. The Master chuckles, and then laughs thoroughly. He braces himself on his knees, trying and failing to catch his breath without bursting into giggles. ‘And, what, you think you know what  _I_  want? Oh, Jack.’

‘I spent a year watching you get what you wanted,’ Jack says quietly. ‘I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.’

The Master eyes him off. The corner of his mouth twists, something too sly to be a smile. ‘Perhaps you do.’

It almost –  _almost –_ feels like a truce. Jack sighs, and turns to open another larder. Partly to find food, partly to put space between them. He begins raiding it; muesli bars, freeze–dried sandwiches, sweets. Some of the smell reaches his nose and he tears into a nut bar, spitting out the wrapper.

The Master, across the room, doesn’t make any effort to leave. He observes Jack keenly, that crafty smile still on his lips. He says it softly, but audibly just the same. ‘You know, for a human, I’m impressed.’

It angers Jack more than he expects. He knows the Master’s game, pushing him, waiting for him to crack like he thinks Jack inevitably must. And maybe that plan would have worked, before he had the Doctor lurking over his shoulder. No matter how far he pushes, the Doctor will never break him. Jack knows it, the Master knows it – and now he thinks he can bluff his way out?

‘With what?’ Jack asks, too weary to let the fury show. ‘You’ve seen what I can do on the Valiant. You know what I can cope with.’ And what he can’t.

‘No, no,’ the Master frowns, shaking his hand. He looks so infuriatingly alike the Doctor, waiting for everybody else to catch up to what he’d figured out ten minutes ago. ‘It’s like you said. Everybody’s happy, aren’t they? You, me, the Doctor. We all have what we want. Harmony, harmony.’

Jack startles for a second, ready to argue, but the Master cuts him off. ‘That doesn’t mean getting everything you want. We compromise, we mediate between each other. A bit of sacrifice, and we all get  _something_  we want.’

He nods towards the door as he says it. And Jack thinks he understands: maybe they’re all just taking the best they can get.

The Master breaks into song, a terrible, wavering falsetto. ‘ _Always, I want to be with you, and make believe with you…’_

 

***

 

Jack keeps things the way he left them. Maybe he’s eager to restore the status quo; maybe he just craves sex, or pain, anything to forget himself. It hardly matters anymore  _why_.

The Doctor is fiddling with a thin length of plastic piping, barely the width of a pencil. He twists it in his fingers, flexing it back and forth.  ‘You’re still healing, Jack.’

‘I’m fine,’ he insists, ‘More fun, that way.’

The Doctor looks up to the Master, who watches them dispassionately. The Master shrugs his folded arms. ‘Perhaps there’s a good reason why your  _dear_  Captain Jack didn’t want you involved.’

Jack bristles at the lie – lie upon lie, until he couldn’t unravel them if he tried. ‘Look, I’m okay, I just – come on. Give me something. I don’t care, anything. Don’t leave me like this.’

The Doctor sighs, a flash of hurt darkening his features. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, simply. ‘Okay,’ and then quieter, to himself, ‘okay.’

Jack sighs, too. He lets his thoughts trail off, surrenders himself to the ritual of it. Suspenders shrugged off. Buttons, top to bottom. Shirt tugged out of his trousers. His skin already prickles to be touched. His body and mind settle into this now–familiar place, where emptiness is peace and the rules are simple. He likes not needing to think or choose. Just be.

The Doctor chews his lip. His hesitation has given way to a look of immense focus, like Jack is another complex puzzle to be solved. In his hands, he fiddles with his plastic rod. His voice remains soft as he instructs Jack, ‘No. Just your shoes and socks.’

The Master gives the Doctor a meaningful glance. Their eyes meet and Jack thinks he can feel it, the silent communication that thrums between their minds.

Jack leaves his shirt half–open and starts on his shoelaces instead.

‘Have you got anything to tie him with?’ the Doctor asks, glancing around the drawing room. The space is large, almost medieval in style; walls hewn from granite, decorated in heavy velvets and rich, dark wood. A massive woven carpet dominates the room, blanketing the stone floor with garish red and gold. The colours map out symbols and motifs, embossed against the wool. Bookshelves line the walls, these filled with an assortment of tacky souvenirs and tchotchkes like the rest of the TARDIS.

The Master raises an eyebrow at the Doctor, and unbuckles his belt.  He slips it free from his trousers, handing it over wordlessly. The leather is stiff enough to spring open in the Doctor’s hand.

Jack places his shoes aside and tucks his socks neatly inside one boot. Expectantly, he chases the Doctor’s eyes. The Doctor doesn’t meet his gaze, still chewing over his thoughts. He jerks his head towards the floor in lieu of instruction.  Jack falls to his knees, eyes level with the Doctor’s crotch, and he wonders – he hopes. The dirty amber of the Master’s eyes cuts right through them both.

The Doctor clutches his tools in his left hand, and with his right, threads his fingers through Jack’s hair. He twists his head upwards, searching Jack’s face. Their eyes lock. Then, the Doctor crouches in front of him, and tugs Jack’s hair just firmly enough to smart. ‘Lay down.’

Jack shuffles onto his back as gingerly as he can. He props himself up on his elbows and watches, fingers tightened into nervous fists. Sweat gathers on his palms. The Doctor takes the Master’s belt and notches it around his ankles, with only a whisper of cool skin against his. It’s thick, secure, and Jack could reach and undo it in a heartbeat, but he makes a show of testing the bindings just to feel them against him. To convince himself he hasn’t got a choice.

Satisfied, the Doctor nods to the Master. ‘That armchair – want to bring it closer?’

The Master shakes his head. He walks behind Jack instead, and slips a knife from his pocket. Jack hears the sound of carpet ripping, and the Doctor’s jaw catches angrily. Twisting his head, Jack finds the Master reaching under the rug to expose an iron ring, bolted smoothly to the granite underneath.

‘I didn’t give you control of my TARDIS so you could vandalise it,’ the Doctor snaps, but as he says it, the beginnings of a grin play at the corner of his mouth. He leans over to take Jack’s shoes. ‘Bind his wrists. I think that’ll be almost enough.’

Jack wonders what for. He doubts the Doctor has anything in mind that would make Jack genuinely grateful to be restrained. Again, he thinks of the Doctor’s body, his weight settled over his chest, clothed erection meeting Jack’s frantic gasps for air, hands guiding his head onto—

The Master winds something thin and fibrous – rope – around Jack’s wrists. He pulls the wraps tight, hooking a finger underneath to adjust the tension. The bulk of the rope rests against the bones of his hands, avoiding the delicate vessels along his inner wrists. The Master pulls up the slack until Jack’s arms are stretched out behind his head, and his mouth falls open as he imagines this, too; arching helplessly to mouth the Doctor’s cock, unable to touch.

The Doctor pulls Jack’s paracord laces free from his boots and inspects them. ‘Handy,’ he comments, and begins binding Jack’s first toes together.

That gets Jack’s heart rate up.

‘What do you think?’ the Doctor asks as he’s finished. He sweeps a discerning glance across Jack’s recumbent body, how he’s stretched out and arranged across the tapestry.

The Master circles around to stand behind the Doctor. He peers over the Doctor’s shoulder at Jack, and his hands curl around to rest on the Doctor’s hips. ‘I think you’re ready.’

The Doctor grins, and seizes the belt around Jack’s ankles. His shirt hitches painfully under his back – he winces – and his feet leave the floor. The Doctor holds him there effortlessly, bent double at the hips. He looks down at Jack wickedly.

Jack’s eyes widen as he retrieves his plastic rod, tucked under his arm. It’s no longer than a couple of feet, but the high–pitched whistle it makes as he flicks it through the air is plenty intimidating.

‘Give me a number,’ the Doctor says, ‘Between one and ten.’

Jack shuffles on his side, where he’s less sore. ‘Nine?’ he ventures.

The Doctor raises an eyebrow. ‘Square it.’

‘Eighty–one,’ Jack replies, an edge of caution creeping into his voice. ‘Shit.’

A tug on his ankles makes Jack flinch, before realising the blow isn’t coming. The Doctor has one of the Master’s sly smiles across his face. ‘Name the closest prime number, and I’ll give you half instead.’

Behind him, the Master lets go of the Doctor’s waist and snorts, snickering into his hand.

‘Oi,’ the Doctor twists around, ‘Get off it. Jack?’

‘I don’t know,’ he hedges, ‘Seventy–six? Seventy–seven?’

‘Guess you don’t feel like walking for the next few days,’ the Doctor murmurs, lines up his strike, and ignites a knife–edge of agony across Jack’s left sole.

Unprepared, Jack yelps, reflexively jerking to his side. ‘Oh, hell,’ he groans, and slowly relaxes back into the floor. He closes his eyes and tucks his face into his shoulder, clenches his teeth against what’s coming.

He hears it – and then another, beside the first, lighter this time. Still fucking hurts. He hisses in breath through his teeth, curling his toes—ah, and there’s the shoelace, limiting even that movement.

‘That’s two,’ the Doctor says mildly. And hits him again.

This one lands on Jack’s other foot, and he twists to the other side, but stays silent. The burn of it lingers, etched deep into his soles, and until it fades Jack stays like that; tense, fingernails biting into his palms, teeth gritted.

The Doctor prods his sole with the end of the plastic rod, teasing the sore flesh, and lets some of the weight off his legs. His rear now firmly on the ground again, Jack bends his knees back, letting the Doctor loosely anchor his feet in the air.

‘Good,’ approves the Master, and lets his hand drift lower down the Doctor’s back. ‘Now, give him another five. No tea–breaks.’

Jack clenches his fists in expectation, but he can’t bring himself to watch it coming – instead he hears the swish of air parting, and the blow jolts up his shins like electricity. The second is just as hard, and he can’t help a small, pained noise escaping. The burn builds, worse with each strike, and when Jack thinks he can’t take another without yelling, a gentle tap lands across his toes instead.

The Master palms the Doctor’s ass, a possessive squeeze. A reward. And then he takes the plastic cane for himself, and delivers a furious stroke over Jack’s left sole – he barely keeps his mouth shut – and steadying Jack’s ankles himself, he lands a second over the bridges of Jack’s feet, too.

This time, Jack does yell.

‘And that’s ten,’ the Master notes, taking a few steps closer to Jack’s face. ‘Not so bad, is it?’

Jack doesn’t respond, breathing heavily. Pain still echoes through his feet, and he works to keep it under control. One–eighth of the way there, he thinks. This is doable. It’s going to hurt like hell, but it’s possible.

The Master tips Jack’s head up with his toe. ‘Clean my shoe, and I’ll take five off.’

The Doctor watches curiously. That settles it for Jack; he sets his jaw and shakes his head. The Master kicks him in the face – not hard, still enough to make his eyes water. ‘There,’ the Master says, ‘That’s eleven.’ The Doctor isn’t watching anymore.

‘I was thinking,’ the Doctor says, and reaches to the Master’s temple, his hand hovering – a question. Instead of letting the Doctor make contact, the Master grabs his hand instead, and looks at him a moment. ‘Well, go on.’

The Doctor rests his thumbs over each of Jack’s feet, and without warning, digs his nails in. Jack sucks in breath, but as the pressure is held, he grows used to the pain – hell, he even begins to enjoy it. Smooth, wavering like a single note. And then something nudges his cock, and Jack looks down to see the Doctor’s canvassed toe feeling its way over his crotch. The Doctor adds a little pressure, massaging the base of his cock. It feels fucking amazing.

He lets go of Jack’s feet and focusses in on delivering pleasure instead. One hand controls his legs, bending Jack’s knees up to his shoulders and exposing more of him to that constant, blunt pressure. When Jack begins to get hard, the Doctor places the flat of his shoe over the length of Jack’s cock and ever so slowly, adds weight.

At first, it’s delicious. Then it’s intense, and he fights just to process it, his whole body tensed and just about to crest over pleasure and into pain.

Then the Master adds his foot over the Doctor’s, and stomps. For a moment, the world goes white. When it comes back, Jack is still screaming.

He barely catches his breath before the Doctor moves to the side, lines up another strike, and lands one – and another, and another, and it takes a while for anything to register beyond the pain still radiating through his groin – but when it does, and he can’t bear the cane, the Doctor stops.

Jack writhes on the floor, panting hard. He can feel the blood flushing his face and chest. Pain echoes everywhere from the waist down. ‘Please,’ he gasps, grabbing the rope above his wrists and clinging on for grim death.

‘That’s not very specific,’ the Doctor notes, raising an eyebrow. ‘Please what?’ And he hits Jack again, softer, but the welts have already swollen and the little plastic cane feels like a brand. Jack stiffens on the first, and works his breathing – in, out – in time with the second. As the heat of it fades, he lets his muscles soften, and the Doctor gives him more.

After five, Jack finds his rhythm. So does the Doctor. They move in sync – Jack working each strike, breathing as the pain crests, letting out tension as it ebbs – and the Doctor watching his body; process, fight, relax. With each blow, he falls deeper.

It stops hurting at all. There’s only rhythm, the conduit of energy between them. Instead of fighting the pain with each lash, Jack moans and lets it run through him, deeper and darker than any pleasure.

The Doctor stops. Jack barely rouses, head lolling on the carpet – but he sees, he sees the Doctor standing there, sweat plastering his fringe to his forehead, eyes big, mouth half–open.

‘Halfway, Jack,’ says the Master.

Jack just smiles, letting his head flop back down. He moves his fingers – they’re tingling – and wriggles his toes. That does hurt.

The Master holds his hand out to the Doctor. As if a spell has broken, the Doctor looks at Jack and drops his gaze, handing the cane across. The Doctor lets out a great breath, rubbing a cramp out of his forearm. He walks around to Jack’s head and crouches down.

‘How are you feeling?’ the Doctor asks, squeezing his hands.

‘Yeah,’ Jack says, and stiffens, arching against another blow over his bruised soles. ‘Oh, hell,’ he tries, and ends up with a strained groan as the Master strikes him again, harder. ‘Please touch me,’ he babbles.

The Doctor holds a hand over his mouth, and catches the Master’s eyes. A grim smile folds his lips. Jack takes a deep, prolonged breath through his nose – and nearly flies off the carpet, this one so much worse, and he yells into the Doctor’s fingers.

The Doctor’s thumb and forefinger inch upwards, and pinch off Jack’s air.

Another strike lands. And another. They’re nearly unbearable, and he screams and can’t take in anymore air, and the next doesn’t seem to hurt as much as the desperate need to  _breathe_ —

Jack gasps reflexively, heaving in air, and then the Doctor’s hand blocks his mouth and nose once more.

The pain barely registers over the burn in his lungs. He doesn’t know how long, just knows that his vision starts to fade, and then blessed, cool air hits his face, and Jack gulps it in. The roar of death in his ears fades down to a lingering whine.

The Doctor looks down at him, eyes blown wide, his expression somewhere between merciless and delighted. And for an awful second, a spike of fear freezes Jack’s stomach in his chest.

Jack knows he wouldn’t. Ever.

But he still reaches for the knots at his wrists, feeling them, trying to see if he can get them loose – if he could. The Doctor finds his wandering fingers, and curls his hands around them, tight. They’re wet with sweat, spit.

The Master takes one of Jack’s feet, prodding the end of the rod against the purpled welts. The skin feels thick, fuzzy with abuse, the sensation unusual. Jack moans at the touch of pain beneath each poke, a heavy ache. The cane taps against his right heel, and Jack opens his eyes once more.

‘Can you feel this?’ the Master asks, slamming the body of the cane over the thicker skin.

Jack gives a soft, quiet noise, and nods. ‘Yeah. Not as bad.’

The Master spends the next ten strokes finding out if he can make it just as bad. The Doctor pins his hands to the floor, but he lets Jack scream.

The high rapidly wears off, the softness around Jack’s brain giving way to frustration, anger, a need to fight back. But he makes it through the Master’s experimenting, and at last, the cane is brought back to his left foot.

Jack relishes the reprieve – until the Master lines up against the centre of Jack’s sole, where he’s most deeply bruised, and brings the cane down hard enough to split skin. Left alone to inflame and swell, it hurts twice as bad. He thrashes, refusing to stay still, and the Doctor leaves his wrists to straddle his waist and hold Jack’s legs still – and he can’t move, he can’t even twist, he sees nothing but the strained fabric of the Doctor’s jacket and the back of his head. He focuses on that, nothing but that, the threads, the pinstripes, the darts, the crease around the Doctor’s shoulders, and endures, endures, endures.

When it stops, his jaw aches from clenching. Tears have spilled their way across the side of his face. He feels nothing in his feet but a great, twisted, throbbing blanket of pain.

The Doctor gets to his feet, and doesn’t even turn to look at Jack. For some reason, this turns the stray tears into sobs.

The Master reaches into his pocket, and hands something to the Doctor. Jack doesn’t see much, some exchanged glances, some gesturing. He turns his face into the crook of his elbow, and waits for them to release him.

‘Ten more, Jack,’ the Doctor murmurs. ‘That’s all.’

Jack shakes his head furiously. ‘I can’t, I can’t.’

The Doctor takes his ankles and soothes a cool thumb down his leg, even as Jack pulls away from the touch. ‘You can. I know you can do it.’

‘Please,’ Jack moans, trying to tug himself free from the Doctor’s hold. He sobs freely. ‘I mean it, I can’t—please, I can’t.’

The Doctor holds him tighter, and flicks open a knife. The Master’s knife. The one Jack still feels deep in his thigh when he works the muscle too hard. He loses control entirely, and the sobs turn into hysterics.

Helpless, Jack pulls, and twists, and thrashes, and still he feels it – that biting, gritty line of impossibly cold steel, down the length of his foot. It hurts, it really hurts, and if it isn’t as bad as the last few strikes of the cane, Jack doesn’t care. He’s beyond any ability to stay on top of it. He tries to find it; that stoic, resolute place that got through those long months on the Valiant, no matter how bad, even if it broke him – but it’s gone. Something in him cracked wide open when the Doctor held him down and made him feel. Now he’s deep under, sinking, and he can’t close the door that lets the pain in, instead of keeping it out.

Jack doesn’t know how he gets through it. The sight of his own blood, a thin, dark line of it staining his trousers, the smell of old wool and dust, the way his throat closes and crying competes with breathing. The taste of salt on his lips.

But eventually, there is relief. And after the Master, there is the Doctor, ready to put him back together.

Jack doesn’t think he can be, this time. He can’t fathom making it back to the surface ever again. But he trusts the Doctor, of all people, to do the impossible.

 


End file.
